Third night in Fiji...

Archival work sucks. Hours of staring at old, faded, absurdly illegible handwriting in the hope of discovering the little nugget of joy that has eluded so many others. It is boring, yet painful, like a seven hour tooth cleaning. Well, maybe not that bad, but it is pretty dull.

No pics today as it rained constantly. Warm, tropical rain, but still the wet kid precluding the use of my camera. I did get in touch with the local tramping club (the Rucksackers) and will be going on trips the next two Saturdays. Also signed up for an open water scuba certification course. So I have nothing at all in this world to whine about, save the absence of my baby.

Suva pulses. It is dirty, it smells bad, the cars all seemingly burn mentholated peat rather than petrol. The street food is questionable, the parks have packs of abandoned dogs, and the tourists are non-existent. It is not a life I would want, but it is fascinating to orbit the perimeter of. I have chosen small towns to live in for their pace, and the cities I have moved to over the years have been far northern or southern, sharing that reticence of the deep temperate zones. Places where ETOH is more common than soap, but a conga line is considered grossly offensive. Okay, conga lines are offensive, but the far north and south are stolid and reserved.

This attraction to the scandinavian makes the tropics a full body experience. Wandering Suva is like drinking a couple of Jolts and eating a Twinkie after years off of sugar. Overwhelming, dizzying, hard to process, but damnedably fun. The people vary widely between the Polynesian stock of the eastern isles, the Melanesian of the west, and the denizens of the subcontinent. Huge men in fringed skirts (yes, I know, sulus) small women in moustaches. Fiji-country. Indo-hip-hop. Everyone going someplace else. I have seen eight caucasians in the last two days. Glorious.

Time for bed and to give my mind a chance to rest. Tomorrow it is back tot he books, then perhaps a trip to the Museum, or inland if the weather breaks and I can find a guide. If so, pictures will ensue.

Fiji deux.

I wake to find that this place is really rather cool. The hotel itself is in the midst of renovations, and is 10 kilometers outside of downtown, and is in the off-season, so I got a steal of a rate. But it is right on the water. Literally. The restaurant is open to the air on two sides and is on pilings over the water. At night lights attracts schools of 6-inch long fish that swim patterns, scooping insects off the surface in unison. The bay outside is full of sailboats. Though it is raining, it is beautiful.



Keeping with my belief that you cannot know a place until you’ve walked all over the damn thing, I head into town. The locals look at me as if I am mad, and I do not see another European for the whole trip into the business district. The adults are friendly but reserved, while the children seem fascinated with my spectacle. Whether it is the hair, the beard, or just the novelty or a pale face tromping through their favelas at 7 AM, they run up and greet me en masse. As in any other locale the urban young men are a bit grumpy, but no surprise.

What does surprise is the combination of a very outspoken populace and a coup-enforced police state. Despite the threats of a succession of coups and weak governments the locals seem to relish talking about the government in dismissive terms. The police are everywhere, but they seem just as bored by it all as the locals are maddened. Maybe it is the fatigues. Picture standard US-style BDUs, but instead of grey, green, or brown, their main color is a turquoise blue seen only in bad imitations of Native American Art. They look like bad Folsom Street drag queen versions of cops. The guns are very real, however.

To get an idea of the intuitive dissonance involved in a Polynesian coup, here is what used to be the grandest hotel in Fiji. The Grand Pacific, a husk of its former glory, is now occupied by the Fijian military. Yet instead of fixing it up to make it habitable, they have simply put up tents in the shells of bedrooms and dining halls.




Across the street lay my salvation. The Thurston Gardens, between the Museum and the heavily guarded residence of the Prime Minister, were a five sense bit of glory. After dealing with the kind but insistent bureaucracy of the Archives for seven hours, and wandering kilometers through Suva’s smog to her southern reaches, I came upon this little pocket. Walking in I was hit by the smell of cooked spices, green plants, and something not quite definable, but delicious. A headache I had not known I had lifted, my eyes stopped watering, and the fact that I was the only one there did not scare me nearly as much as perhaps it should. The trees were incredible, with whole colonies of plants living on each one. Flowers, birds, flowery bird-like cops in turquoise fatigues guarding the border with the Commodore’s residence. Nice.

A further wander took me to Suva Point, past parks full of screaming kids and those abandoned to groups of lolling, mangy dogs. After maybe 20 K all told today, it was time to recoup. A quick, dirt cheap taxi ride home and time to prepare for tomorrow.
Though perhaps it is time to talk about Abel Tasman.

A couple of weekends ago Kyle and I took off to do one of the two classic Great Walks (along with the Milford), the Abel Tasman Coastal trail. Being big tough guys we didn’t see this as enough of a challenge, so we decided to tack on the Inland Trail as well, rarely travelled and rated as much harder and much drier, thus increasing our pack weights with lots of carried water. Thank God for that. Roughly a 90 K loop in 6 days, a couple of thousand meters in vertical gain, and huts for the first 2 nights, tents the rest.

Driving up in one day from Dunedin, we tried to get a room outside the park. The first motel owner jovially termed us “idiots” for actually driving the 9 hours between Dunners and Nelson in a day (apparently not common Kiwi behavior) but eventually we found a bed. The next day we arose ready to tackle the worst day of the hike, with a 850 meter climb over 12 K of ground. Unfortunately ground is a very broad term. The reason many people don’t do the Inland track is that it is straight out of Jurassic Park. The trail is a stream bed covered in tree roots the size of Popeye’s forearm. This alone would have been interesting, but as it intermittently rained (and snowed) for days before and during the climb, these were filled streambeds. Thank the stars we brought those extra kilos of water. Then upon finally reaching our goal we found that the hut we assumed empty (it had only had 19 guests in the previous 25 nights) suddenly had 9 visitors for the 8 bunks. All soaked, and all tired. It was beautiful, nonetheless.

The second day involved more climbing and a night in a hut on the cusp of a fantastic view. The pair of Keas in the tree helped set the scene, and the absence of other guests aside from Yukio just sweetened the deal.

Climbing down from our aerie was the best part of the trip. Gibbs Hill rightfully has the reputation for the best views in the northern part of South Island.

It also has hedgehogs, one of the very few mammals we saw this trip. As a matter of fact the only large non-primate beasties we saw this trip was the decapitated body of a huge boar being hauled like a backpack by an understandably terse hunter and his pack of torn-up hog curs. Apparently they don’t eat much of the boars, considering them vermin and suitable as dog food. Damn shame that, I’d eat the whole thing. As long as I didn’t have to carry it.

The next three days were a collage of beautiful beaches, woodland paths, and incredible rainstorms. Rain so hard it poured off the tent in psychedelic sheets rather than rivulets, so hard that knocked the condensation off the inside of the tent, producing an internal rain shower as well. But was it worth it? Look for yourself:

One caveat. By the time we reached this sign on the last day, we were out of chocolate and could barely stand. We were smug though, deeply, deeply smug.

Worthy trade.

With all due credit to Kyle as a great tramping partner and photographer.