(The views expressed in this article do not represent those of the Peace Corps or its affiliates.)
I see the bilo being passed to me, as it usually is after the Chief and the Priest have taken the first drink. The tall Fijian man approaches me to hand me the cup. I clap once to signify that it’s my turn, take the bilo (a hollowed out coconut shell), raise it up and look around at all the faces in the hall. There are about fifty men sitting cross-legged in a semi-circle around a larger wooden bowl while the women are in the back of the hall preparing plates of food. Today is special. It’s the Bose ni Tikina, which is the bi-annual meeting of all the heads of the main villages along with a few from the regional government in the district of Na Viti Levu in the province of Ra. I hold it up, say the customary “Yandra”, and drink down the muddy colored water faster than my body can reject it. To the rest of the world this drink is known as Kava, but here in Fiji, we call it Grog. My face grimaces (but that’s ok), hand the bilo back, and clap three times. That’s how it’s done here, and I’ve gotten very used to it. Now it’s just more serious.
The meeting goes on for hours, and I’m in pain. Sitting cross-legged in one spot for so long still takes getting used to. My Fijian is developing, but I still have little idea on what they’re talking about. I hear the word for school and know that they’re talking about the fitness program that I’ve started there. I get some stoked nods from the crowd which I take graciously. (Just wait until I give those kids some water-polo balls and have them do swims in the ocean, Junior Lifeguard style.) To me, the discussions seem casual as I’m mentally staring at the giant elephant in the room that needs to be addressed. I certainly want to talk about it, but I’m certainly not going to speak about it first, being the only non-Fijian in the room and all. I just sit there quietly as more bilos are passed my way. I can start to feel the grog circulate my body as all my muscles relax and my mind becomes clear. I begin to day dream about all the perfect Fijian waves that are barreling hard over shallow reef somewhere near the island that isn’t here. That’s why I was so excited when the Peace Corps told me I was going to be sent to Fiji. I thought I was going to be in those barrels, but alas, it’s been four months now and I haven’t had the chance. At least I got in that one solid day of surf at the beach break.
It was late May when the Peace Corps flew me to Fiji from LAX. Because of my six years spent as a State Lifeguard in the Malibu Sector, I suppose they thought it would be appropriate to send me to The Pacific. And because of my EMT certs, they labeled me as a “Health Promoter”. I thought I was going to be doing HIV education in Africa or something and never would have imagined they would send me to the place I’ve dreamed of going ever since I saw Pat O’Connell and Robert “Wingnut” Weaver surf the legendary Fijian waves of “Cloud Break” in Bruce Brown’s classic film The Endless Summer II, when I was eleven years old. Thank you, Sargent Shriver and John Kennedy for that. Good on you.
My first month in Fiji I lived with a host family in a village just north of the capital of Suva called Tobuniqio (Sharks pool), ironically named as the village is miles from the coast. It was there were I had my language and cultural training with five other Peace Corps Volunteers. Awesome guys, but I was the only surfer in the group. We studied while the Peace Corps staff assessed us and decided where to place us individually for the next two years. I almost had a panic attack when I heard a rumor they were going to place me in the interior of the island. That would have killed me. Thankfully that wasn’t the case.
I arrived at My Site Village by boat as that is the only viable means of transportations to and from there. There’s no surf on this side of the island, save for maybe in cyclone season from November through April. (Fingers crossed!) I came to a low-lying village of about thirty houses on a bed of flat land with tall, steeping, mountainous slopes behind it. No electricity. Everyone in my village is welcoming and friendly, of course. The Fijian people are some of the most warm and hospitable people in the world. (And I’ve been around the world.) I swear you could knock on anybody’s door in this country and be welcomed with tea and a place to sleep, given that you act culturally appropriate. That’s what I like about this country. The only issue is that no one in this village speaks English very well. I’m not allowed to reveal the name of my village in print due to Peace Corps security policy, but if you look at a map of the main island of Viti Levu, I am in the Northeast side of the island in the province of Ra, on the east side of Viti Levu Bay, on a peninsula completely devoid of infrastructure, with the another village to the Southwest of me and another to the East. My house is the only cultural hut (bure) made out of coconut leaves and bamboo which is spitting distance from the ocean. All the other houses are small tin shacks. One little secret about my village that makes it so special is that our spring water, which is piped down to us, is the purest mineral water in Fiji, based on what I hear was a national taste test some years back. I believe it, too. Our water is delicious, better than Fiji Water, and I shower in it.
For the first three months at site, volunteers are not encouraged to engage in projects as this time is meant for us to adapt and assess the needs and wants of the villagers. In a twisted way you can think of it as a government paid vacation in an isolated, tropical, fishing village. For the next month I find myself spear-fishing, farming, eating, hunting wild boar and giant bats, drinking grog every night until our bodies are so numb we can’t move, feel someone shaking my foot to wake me up from where I’ve passed out, scratch the mosquito bites on my face, it’s 6:00 a.m., time to go farm, my body is paralyzed, fight it, go farm until noon, eat, and pass out again. That’s life in this village as well as for many others in isolated regions of The Pacific. The concept of time is non-existent. Visitors and foreign workers have come to know it as “Fiji time”. When I have time to reflect, I realize I’m having a pretty good time, but I can’t lose sight of the future as I begin to communicate project potential.
Being a health promoter in this region leaves me in a sticky spot as I look around and know that these villagers are the healthiest people in the world. The black soil is volcanic and nutrient rich, so they don’t have any need for fertilizers or pesticides, and everything they eat is grown and caught. Everybody’s blood pressures are in normal range. I know, I checked. That’s not to say that everyone in Fiji lives the same way. Across the bay on the developed side of civilization, hypertension and diabetes is an extremely growing problem as people are opting more to ditch organically grown produce for high sodium noodles and beer.
It’s an interesting paradox to become discouraged by the thought of people around you being very happy, but as a Peace Corps Volunteer, I didn’t know what I was doing there. I wasn’t discouraged though. A half hour walk west from my village is the local boarding, primary school. Great, I like kids. I can be a bit of a bully sometimes. (All in good, interactive fun, though.) And I found that these kids worship me like a rock star, hero. They love riding my surf boards in the choppy currents as they’ve never seen surf boards before, and I love teaching them new games like Capture the Flag, Dodge Ball, and Ultimate Frisbee. Despite my efforts though, Rugby is and will forever be the favorite game among the indigenous population. Maybe that will change when I introduce Water Polo though. (Probably not)
Another project My Village is working on is building a sea-wall in front of the village to combat erosion. By simply picking up stones and placing them in front of the village in the shape of a foot high wall, it’s amazing to watch the high tide exceed the wall, bringing with it sediment and sand that actually gets trapped by the rocks, remarkably de-roding the beach. Erosion is becoming an increasing problem as more and more roots are exposed by the shore line. But we’re bringing the beach back.
So there I had it. My outlook on the next two years seemed productive: work on the fitness program at the school and finish the sea-wall. And then something happened that changed everything.
Upon my arrival by boat to the neighboring village to the Southwest, I saw a giant posted sign on the beach which read: “Datum Post, Tengy Cement Company, July 2011”. That sign disturbed me. Selling the region’s sand to a cement company is cause for a whole mess of problems for the future. I sat down with the village’s Toronikoro, which is an elected mayor of the village who speaks on behalf of The Chief, around a bowl of grog. After small, getting-to-know-each-other-talk I enquired about the sign. He was reluctant to talk about it. Afterwards, I wondered if that Toronikoro knew the environmental implications of selling their beach to miners. The first and most obvious consequence would be the increase of erosion to the shore line as there would be no sand to buffer the sea. The second consequence would be the damage to the fisheries as all of that sand that gets churned up in the process of excavating it, will disperse for miles and end up settling on the nearby coral reefs, suffocating them and ultimately killing them, ending the fishing in the region for God knows how many years. Not to mention, how are they going to get from their boats to the village? At low tide you can walk out for a hundred yards to where the boats are anchored. If they sell the sand they’re going to have to start swimming. Those were only the first consequences I thought of.
Over the next month I began trying to influence this man who was selling the sand. I asked if I could see the contract to see if I could spot any holes in it. He said “When the time comes.” Eventually I gave up on talking to him as ultimately I knew that the check is going to be signed to his name. I knew that he wasn’t maliciously selling the sand, but that he was ignorant of the consequences. I knew that because he made the village plant mangrove trees along the village to combat erosion. Talk about irony. So, I began to talk to the fishermen in the village. It seemed people were very upset about the situation, but weren’t doing anything about it. They would say “No good! What are we going to eat?” I would reply “Well, I hope you like canned tuna.” (Half jokingly) Soon I learned that what I was doing was dangerous as you don’t start any kind of business without going through the higher ups first. In Fijian culture you don’t want to step on anybody’s toes, or in this case, over their heads. (In Fiji, it’s extremely disrespectful to stand above anybody.) The problem here was that the higher ups where selling the sand and livelihoods of the villagers away for profit. Later, that same Toronikoro came to my village and in a meeting around a grog bowl, told my Chief that Tengy wants to harvest the sand all the way up from their village, to Ours, and up to the village in the East. I told my Chief afterwards that that’s bad-news-bears as the village to the Southwest is situated on some higher hills so they’ll at least survive, however for low-lying villages like ours and the one to the East, won’t survive increased erosion, and in a few years these villages will start to crumble into the sea. He understood that.
The next month the Toronikoro of the village to the East sat me down behind a grog bowl. He explained to me that last year Fiji Cement held a monopoly on the cement production in Fiji. Then came the Chinese company, Tengy, who uses cheaper labor and sells their product for cheaper prices. (Mostly to Singapore) Now, Tengy is working hard to buy up all the black sand they can “legally” get in Fiji. Eventually they will buy out Fiji Cement. That means that soon the country’s entire cement production will be owned by China. Interesting, but this info doesn’t help us. Then he told me that the Chief of the village to the Southwest is the head of the Chiefly Yavusa (head the all the clans in the region) who has legal permits to lease all the sand from his village, around the bay, up to My Village, and the next one. Which, he is currently doing. So even if my Chief says no to Tengy, he has no legal authority to stop them. Great, that just raised the stakes extremely higher. That Toronikoro and I made a pact to talk to people in our villages, educate them about the implications of the Tengy deal, and create some outcry. Over the next month we began doing just that. Unfortunately, the people are afraid of the subject and were reluctant to talk about it. I guess nobody wants to take a stand against something the Yavusa has decided upon. That’s when the depression hit me.
I was feeling overwhelmingly discouraged by this point. Here I was, dedicating two years of my life towards helping a village prepare itself for the inevitable rising sea-level, and if this deal is signed, it’s all going to go to waste. It already could be signed for all I know. I didn’t know what to do. My shakras were out of line. My soul was dying.
I need to go surfing!
I grabbed my 6’3 trifin, jumped on a boat to the main road, jumped on a bus, and I was off to Sigatoka, on the exact opposite side of the island.
Most of the surfing in Fiji is done in heavy reef-breaks like Cloud Break. I wasn’t a vacationing surfer with money for a boat. Plus I haven’t surfed in almost four months now, so I wasn’t looking for a monster-charger (I would go for one if one was in front of me, though.) I just wanted to surf the cheapest way possible, and that means a beach break. The only beach break in Fiji is the sharky waters of Sigatoka River Mouth. That’s where I was headed.
I hadn’t a clue how to get out there. My plan was to travel the day, sleep at another Peace Corps Volunteer’s village in the region and figure it out the next day. That plan was short lived as I met a local Fijian surfer with blond, dyed hair while walking with my board in Sigatoka Town, miles from the break. He asked if I wanted to go surfing. I said “Yeah.”
Sigatoka river mouth is right in front the country’s largest sand dunes where hundreds of human skulls have been unearthed. It was reminiscent of the South Africa seen in The Endless Summer when Mike and John walked across the sand dunes to take their first look at the surf. We did the same and took my first look. “Not too shabby.” A-frames about six or seven feet at max, with the power of Huntington Beach, for miles with NOBODY OUT! “Do people know about this spot” I asked. “Yeah, but everybody surfs the reef breaks” the Fijian with beach blond hair said. I said “Nice!” It was exactly what I needed. We surfed until it was dark. My last ride in was my wave of the day as I dropped in on a steep face, made my goofy, front side bottom turn, hit the lip, and dropped back into the wave that got faster and faster for about ten seconds and ended with a little shacker that covered me up. I was happy.
He took me to his uncle’s house to spend the night. His uncle just happened to be the coolest dude I’ve ever met in my life. He asked me not to blog about him, so I won’t use his name. He’s an old-school fisherman with tribal tattoos up and down his arms, which tells stories of his Fijian and Chinese heritage. Around the grog bowl, he would go off on how Fijians need to ditch modernization and go back to their roots. He would say stuff like “Man, they should tear down all these concrete houses around here and build bures, Man. Live off the land!” I like this guy. He told me how back when he was young he would fish the coral reefs by the river mouth, but today they’re all gone due to the pesticides that have been dumped into the river over time. I told him about my situation with the Chinese company and he laid it to me straight. “Man, the Chinese aren’t going anywhere. The whole world is doing business with them. You can’t get rid of them, but what you can do is divert them. We have sand in the interior of Sigatoka they can take instead.” “That’s very cool of you, but I wouldn’t want to do that to the villages that rely on that sand.” I said. He returned “No, Man. Nobody’s using it! They can take it.” I thought, bless his heart, but if this sand exists chances are Tengy already knows about it and is looking into it right now, but, then again, maybe not. He then went on “As for Your Village, what they want is income. They want it so bad they’re going to do things they don’t understand. But don’t sell the sand. Figure out ways to use your resources to make profit. Grow seaweed!” “Seaweed?” I asked. “Yeah, the Chinese buy it in stock for pharmaceuticals. They eat it, too. There investing millions of dollars into Fiji for seaweed.” I thought about that. “Yeah, that sounds cool.” “And grow bee farms to sell the honey!” he said. I said “Yeah. That sounds like a good idea, too. The only problem is that I don’t know anything about starting a business. If I need to make money I get a job, but as for money management, I’m novice.” He looked at me and said “It’s up to you.”
The next morning I surfed all day. I stayed an extra night to get in as much surf and words of wisdom as possible before I head back. On my way back I stopped off at the town of Nadi to buy some ding repair. I walked into the only surf shop in town and started to make talk. I discovered that this shop is owned by Ian Ravouvou Muller, aka Kini. That name sounded vaguely familiar. I think I remember reading about him in Surfer Magazine. “Isn’t he that guy who successfully campaigned to de-privative the surf breaks in Fiji?” I asked. I received a positive response. “And isn’t he the guy who champions introducing surfing to the indigenous?” I also asked. They told me I was correct. I then thought he might be a good person to contact. I took his card. I’m planning on calling him as soon as I finish writing this article.
Because I stayed an extra night, I subsequently missed the cheap boat back to my village that leaves on Saturday, so I decided to hike it. I stayed that night in a friend’s village in Ra. The next day I came to a village that is the start of a path to a coastal village further to the East. I have some business in that village and so it being Sunday, I didn’t want to go walking through with my surf board as that is the Fijian holy day of rest. Walking through like that would be viewed as disrespectful. I started the trek around one o’clock with a few young girls who were guiding me. We walked for a few hours uphill and when we reached where the path begins to slope downward towards the village further to the East, I asked if they could point out the path that leads to My Village. They pointed it out. I took note that the path wasn’t so much of a path as it was more like a pig-trail that leads into the jungle. I started to walk down it. They girls stopped me and told me not to go down that way. I told them I was. (I was in the mood for a test of faith.) They said, very distraughtly, “Jesus be with you.” Then they turned around. I continued forward. Needless to say I got immediately lost. To make matters worse, the sun set and it was dark. I climbed a big rock to get a view of the vista. I could see the village further to the East some miles in the distance. I thought to myself all I need to do is go straight through all of that menacing bush…in the dark. I reached the village around nine thirty, completely covered in mud and scrapes with a few new dings on my board. (That’s why I bought the ding repair.) The first house I walked by, a boy inside said “Look. A cavalangi!” (Cavalangi mean white person.) I said “Bogi”, which at night means “May I enter?” I was greeted warmly by shocked faces. Then I said “Kerea somi wai?” which means “Please, may I have some water?” They gave me water. I then looked up and with a bit of hopefulness in my voice I said “Suki?” which means “Cigarette?”
The next morning I waited for the tide to get low enough and so I could continue to walk back west towards My Village. I started west. “God, I hope the Peace Corps doesn’t find out about this.” I said to myself. Of course they did. For some reason the Peace Corps finds out EVERYTHING. During my site visit, my two supervisors asked me if I was scared about the pig traps and wild pigs in the hills. (Apparently wild pigs are notorious for charging people.) I told them that I wasn’t so much concerned about the pigs as much as I was about the treacherous mud pits (my board came in handy when I was stuck in them), and cliffs. I got a fair slap on the wrist for that one. I told them about the projects we were going to embark on such as the fitness program, the sea-wall, the nursing station, the first-aid training, the mangrove planting, and how the members of My Village’s eyes lit up when I mentioned the idea of growing seaweed and honey to generate income. Luckily, they were just as excited about the projects as I was. Because of all that, I got off the hook for getting lost in the hills and almost setting my entire house on fire when I tried to use my stove for the first time.
As I escorted my supervisors back to their boat across the sand, they wished me luck and gave me instructions on how to get to the university near Suva. In a few days all the Peace Corps Volunteers are going to meet up for two more weeks of technical training. They wished me well and were off.
Suddenly, I heard some commotion to my right. I looked over at the community hall and watched the villagers decorating the walls with leaves and flowers in preparation for tomorrow. Tomorrow happens to be the Bosi ni Tikina. Speaking of which…
I snap back to the present as I hear the English word for environment and hear my island name, Tanela, spoken. I look up and see everyone’s faces, including the head of the Yavusa, all the Chiefs, Toronikoros, and the heads of the regional government, staring at me. “Are we talking sand, here?” I said. Nods. Knowing it was my time to shine, I explained exactly what would happen if they go through with the plan. “If you like to eat fresh fish caught from the sea, don’t sell the sand. If you like living on land, don’t sell the sand.” I actually said it more eloquently then that, but the point I was making was technically the same. There was a long discussion after that, during which, I see the elderly woman in the village who likes cooking for me, sitting in the back of the hall (the only literate woman in The Village), smiling at me and giving me thumbs up. Eventually the Head of the Provincial Government looks at me and explains in English that the Head of the Yavusa has decided to hold a special meeting on the 12th of October, reserved exclusively for the sand discussion, and wants me to be the chief representative and organizer for the opposition to the deal. I thought, “Wow, pretty gnarly.”
After the meeting, I asked that man from the government if he could give me a boat ride to the other side of the bay as I wanted to get to Suva early so I can mentally start preparing for this presentation I’ll be making on the 12th. With the Peace Corps training ending on the 8th of October, that leaves me with less than adequate time to prepare. Along with getting in a day of much needed surf in the one weekend I have free during training, it seems I’m going to be very busy.
I like Fiji. I’m looking forward to exploring the vast fields of sweetness on this island (Viti Levu), along with those on Vanua Levu, the garden island of Taviuni, Ovalau, the Yasawa group (where Cast Away was filmed), the Mamamuca group (Cloud Break), as well as all the other three hundred plus islands in the Fijian Chain, and walk with sheer gnar as I pretend I’m strolling through a gorgeous place on earth spared from time, and then at some point, surf my brains out! Ultimately, I want to keep this place clean and trash free, but I can’t be the only one who sees these threats to the island spirit and takes action. I hope we can all learn from each other over the next two years…
By Daniel (The Danimal) Arnold
Peace Corps Volunteer
