Week 4: Fiji Travel Flashbacks: Drug Dealers and Cannibalism

This week I was going to tell you how I lost 4 pounds, worked out like a beast and ate like a champ. THAT IS TRUE! However, I have only received requests to talk about my travels. So here you have it! My adventures are what I live for. Last November, I went on an amazing adventure going to Fiji, Australia, Vietnam, Hong Kong, and Tokyo. I think the healthiest thing you can do is travel and explore. 

My One day in Fiji was the Craziest Day of My Life

Every time I travel I am reminded why I do it: to feel alive. When people ask which country fulfilled this feeling the most, it is undoubtedly Fiji (with Vietnam falling in 2^nd, but that is a whole other story). Bula is a simple greeting in Fijian. It is very similar to the Hawaiian equivalent of Aloha. All the locals say it frequently and with conviction. After working on a cruise ship circling the Hawaiian Islands in the Shore Excursions department, I figured the excursion desk was a safe place to start. I had exactly 22 hours in this beautiful country on a long layover to Australia and did not want to waste anytime. As I sat with brochures in hand, inquiring about potential activities I could partake in, the woman at the desk cut me off. She was a large woman with a thick Fijian accent and in-your-face personality. “Princess,” she said with a slight laugh, “You are looking at all the wrong excursions. My cousin’s friend drives a taxi. Private guide. He will show you around the island. You want a real adventure, don’t you?” Everything I knew about excursions was just thrown out the window, as I sat speechless flicking the corners of the brochures of insured and acknowledged excursions.  This woman was telling me a random stranger taking me into the middle of a 3^rd world country alone was the better choice. My mind was racing through all the scenarios of getting in the taxi, with the cousin’s friend. The images ranged from exciting to terrifying. However, this robust woman used my favorite word and weakness: adventure. With a quick nod I replied, “Have him pick me up tomorrow morning at 7am. I want to see the best of the island- markets, beaches, and such. My flight leaves at 6pm”.  

Toga Brown, my trusty guide

Somewhere near island time of 7am (closer to 8am), Toga Brown, a friendly looking middle-aged man stood before me in the lobby. I did not know exactly what I was in for when I heard my trusty guide say, “Bula! You must be Katrina. I hope you are ready for today. It will be interesting for you.”  No. I was not mentally prepared for what was in store. What lied ahead of me was not only interesting but also the most memorable day of my life. You know those true stories you hear and think, “Wow, reality is always more interesting than fiction?” My one adventure filled day in Fiji was one of those days. It did not hit me until I found myself sprinting and sweating my way through the in the Nadi airport, praying my flight gate was still open that I realized that this day was in fact, not a dream.

The following events are the highlights and does not even cover the entirety of the day:

I stood up promptly and headed to the van. I opened up the door on the left hand side and sat down. I heard shouting from outside the vehicle. I looked in front of me to find the steering wheel. Here I thought, I was climbing into the passenger seat, however, pulled a classic rookie mistake of sitting in the drivers seat. You see, like Australia, they drive on the opposite side of the road to us in the States. After resolving our issue, I slyly smiled to myself and climbed into my proper seat as he uncomfortably laughed at the situation.

As soon as we escaped the lavish and chic resort district, I was exposed to a whole new world. It was literally as if we were in an entirely different country in a matter of minutes. We started by driving down the Queen’s highway, a local’s road, through what I would consider with my first world eyes- an impoverished area. Houses made of tin and wood slabs lined the road. They were more decorated with clotheslines and laundry than anything. Part of the major road was paved, part of it was gravel, and much of it was dirt. We explored the towns of Nadi and Sigatoka.

The first stop, unknown to me at the time, set the bizarre foundation for the rest of the day. It was a small shack set up in the middle of nowhere. There was not another building, village, nor living person I saw, for many miles. As we pulled in I saw woodcarvings and demonic looking statues hanging from and surrounding the building. I was pretty sure this place could win a Travel Channel special for the creepiest souvenir store on planet earth. I’m also fairly positive Freddy Kruger would have been happy to call this shack home.  Then again, what do I know about non-Disney movies? The shop is of course empty.  What else would you expect from a place like this? The salesman with no teeth, trying to sell me a wooden carving of a village chief with a giant erection, seemed to know Toga. They were originally from the same village. To avoid showing the locals how uncomfortable I was, I decided to pretend to look interested in the creepy art. It was not until I found, what seemed to be very unique wooden eating utensil that my fascination took over. It was a sharp, pointy object with 4 prongs in an almost triangle shape. I picked it up wondering what in the world they could use this for. Toga stood behind me and in a whisper said, “that is a people eating fork, Miss Katrina.” I laughed at what I thought was a joke to ease my tension. I looked up at the tall brooding man to see he had no smile on his face. As he shook his head in disgust and explained, “Our country had a major problem with cannibalism. We ate people for food. That there, is a special fork meant to tear the muscle from the bone.” I was so appalled. There was only one thing I could do: walk dumbfounded over the cash register to purchase the fork to eat people with. No one would believe me otherwise. I have since read up on the subject and discovered that Toga was indeed not pulling one over on me. I really own a fork made for cannibalism. How many people can say that?

On our way to the city, we passed through some of the most beautiful countryside. I saw random farm animals, like horses, cows, and pigs grazing on the side of the road, no fences or owners in sight. In a small stretch of road with a shoulder and some shade, sat a blanket with two young girls selling mangoes. I ask Toga to stop the car. The girls were sisters, one 8 and the other 4 years old. I looked around- no another human for probably a mile, let alone their parents. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a wad of cash and handed it to the girls. Their clothes were dirty and tattered. They wiggled and laughed with glee at the site of money. They tried to give me the rest of their mangoes. I knew I would never be able to consume 50 mangoes that day. I grabbed one for each Toga and I and turned to leave. The youngest girl jumped up off the blanket and shouted, “Thank you, Miss Princess. Thank you.” With that, she blew me a kiss and waved with the biggest smile that melted my heart. I wonder what the rules are in Fiji about adopting (/kidnapping for a good cause) random children off the street. As the car pulled away, I daydreamed about bringing them home with me.

Before I even entered the market in Sigatoga, I was getting catcalls from the men standing on the street out side the entrance. As I stepped inside, the hustle and bustle of the market seemed to slow, pause, and look at me.  I was so fascinated by all the different smells and sights that it took me a few moments to realize that nearly everyone there was starring at me. I was definitely 100% the only white, blonde girl with a bow in her hair in this enormous room.  All of a sudden, someone hit the unpause button and before I knew it, I found myself in a swarm of venders. Like angry bees coming for the attack, or paparazzi discovering a drunken celebrity, they over powered my sense of direction. Everyone was flashing jewelry, spices, and other goods in front of me with such force I could not see through the wall of people. Out of nowhere, I heard faintly through the crowd, “Miss Katrina, grab my hand.” With that, I felt my hand being pulled and pushed my way through an opening of the swarm of venders. Toga's eyes were wide, yet calm. With a slight laugh he said, “You should probably stick with me in here.” I was puzzled. I thought I was sticking with him. Now he had asked for it. I was literally going to attach myself to my guide like a feather to glue- or so I thought.

Once I got my barring, I grew in aw of the market. As I passed the rows of gorgeous spices and fresh produce, I realized I was in sensory overload. I wished I could have more time in this country- simply to smell and eat my way through it. I had never seen such an array of fresh fruits and vegetables. As I walked past the spice section I was encompassed with the scent of curries, dried peppers, and sugar cane. Next my olfactory flagged down the cava and tobacco producers. Their distinct, yet almost sweet demeanor lured me towards it. It was only then my senses stopped on the rank, yet familiar smell of the fish market. I stood still as childhood flashbacks on board the Barracuda- my Grandpa’s boat, flashed before me with the familiar scent of fish and mollusks. I instinctively walked toward it, not realizing I had lost my trusty guide somewhere around the spices. I was distracted by the fish which were among some of the most colorful I have ever seen. Old women sat with hand made paper fans, trying to cool the fish on the already melting ice. In the corner, I spotted a young girl. She was no more than 4 years old and she sat slouched over in a chair starring at the seafood in front of her. I approached her sitting down while she kept a watchful eye on the looming piles of mussels on the table. “Bula! How are you today?” I asked with a smile to the sweet little one in front of me. She looked at me shyly with fascination and hesitated responding. After taking a couple glances around, she responded, “Bula. Your skin is pretty.” This was not the response I expected. This girl was gorgeous. I smiled and responded, “Well, I think you must be a Princess because I have never seen such beauty!” She blushed and paused a few seconds before responding. The timid little girl looked up and said, “May I touch it?” Puzzled I cocked my head and ask, “Touch what, sweetie?” She extended her little hand toward me and said, “Your pretty skin.” I let out a giggle and reached out and gently grabbed her hand before I uttered a word. She smiled and said, “Vinatra (meaning thank you kindly). You are so soft, like a cloud. I am very well today. I am watching the mussels for my family.” While speaking in no more than a whisper, the girl was petting my hand like a precious and delicate jewel.  When I looked up from the small adoring child, I noticed Toga was a crossed the market holding a small bowl in his hands motioning me to come towards him. I patted the little girl on the head and wished her a good day and moved in the direction of my handy guide.

Fresh Cava Cava Root

Toga was standing holding a small wooden bowl filled with what looked like muddy water. The man beside him smiled and said, “I just ground it up. Best cava in Fiji.” He nodded his head in the direction of a large bowl of grassy roots that sat on the table behind him. The small bowl was handed to me. It was fresh cava cava root that had just been brought in, cleaned, ground, and mixed with water. “Take it like tequila. One gulp,” the cava expert advised me. Tequila?  Out of all of the reference in the world that this man could have made, he chose my weakness and choice hard alcohol.  I knew the task ahead and I knew I would be successful. With that, I smiled, took the bowl, posed for a picture, and drank the cava shot like the champion I am. My local cava expert seemed impressed. It was the strongest and most potent cava I had ever experienced. A huge sense of relaxation rushed through me. I found myself stumbling over words, much like I do after a few tequila shots. It was delightful.

Like a champ.

It turned out Toga’s friend was an expert in something else as well- tobacco. He unwrapped a huge roll of fresh roped tobacco. The smell made my brain question everything I had ever associated with the substance. It was aromatic and almost sweet smelling. The friend pulled out a curved knife and cut off a piece that was about 4 inches long and handed it to me.  With a nudge I heard Toga whisper, “Let’s go.” He had a mischievous smile from ear to ear. My inquisitive side stopped him and said, “Toga where are we going in such a hurry?” Slightly annoyed with my lack of trust, Toga said, “Have you ever smoked a cigar from fresh tobacco? Because you are about to at the world’s 7^th most beautiful beach.”

About 45 minutes later we arrived at Natadola, the most breath-taking beach I have ever seen. The water was the truest turquoise known to nature. If this was the 7^th most beautiful beach, I cannot begin to imagine what 1-6 look like. There were swirls of the deepest midnight blue mixed into the currents, where the grassy like seaweed made resistance. The sand was white and fluffy with reminisce of what use to have shells along the shore. They had long ago been crushed and nearly disintegrated in the pounding of the waves over time. I sat on the shoreline in silenced thought. It was one of those rare moments that help you with the clarification of your life. I really could have used a few more minutes, or hours, or days on that shore to sort out all the nonsense that I had been rummaging around in my head for the last few months. However, the silent therapy of the surrounded clear blue skies and ocean was an appreciated gift. Toga had rolled the tobacco rope into a perfect cigar. Smoking a deserving stogie has been on my bucket list for a while, since I had never done so. Toga had picked some matches up at a gas station on our way to the beach. I sat there in thought, only interrupted by my abrupt and pressing urge to cough every bit of smoke out of my lungs. It became easier with a couple puffs. Then I could taste the sweetness that I could smell from the rope initially.

As the cigar disappeared, I buried its remains in the sand and had the sudden burst of adrenaline to throw off my shoes and run into the ocean. It was warm. I lay there floating for a bit. After I came back to reality with my body, I realized I was crying. I am not sure why. It was both happy and sad tears. The therapy ensued. The waves rushed over me. I lost my footing and slipped back in. I opened my eyes underwater to find the rock I had been standing on was staring back at me in the face. Vonu- as locals calls them. It was a massive sea turtle. If I were him, I would have swam away from this monstrous beast that just stood on his back, but no, he just stayed there. My eyes were starting to burn and my breath was running out. I took my chance (I was not in Hawaiian waters, so as far as I know the actions that took place are not illegal, I think) and reached out to touch the turtle. He swayed his head a bit, but did not dodge me as my hands graze his shell. With this, he started to swim. I took another chance, and lightly held on to the sides of his curved shell and let him pull me. I have never felt freedom like that. When I sensed Yurtle the Turtle needed a break from me, I let go of my little friend and climbed my way back through the currents to the shore.

As I walked toward Toga, I was distracted by a familiar sound- a chorus of American accents. I turned around to find 4 guys, around my age, waxing their surfboards and lighting up joints. I ask where they were from- originally California, but they now reside in Fiji- as surfing/smoking missionaries. I’ve heard a lot in my day- but that was a first.  As I dried out my clothes, I chit chatted with the boys. At that point in the afternoon these missionaries were so blazed that most of their conversation seemed gibberish to me. However, they found each other quite humorous and laughed like a pack of hyenas. Randomly, out of the mindless stoned chatter I heard one of them say, “You’re from Eastern Washington. I use to spend my summers in Chelan. It was so dope.” And sometimes you are reminded how small the world is. Chelan is a lake town about 40 minutes from where I grew up. I too spent many summer days in the cool deep waters of the lake. It is pretty dope.

As I sat there my stomach started to grumble. Other than my extraordinary mango, I had not eaten all day. Toga helped me gather my things and we headed back to town to get some lunch before going to the airport. I had requested to eat very local and traditional style food. I have a rule when I travel- do not ask what you are eating until after you eat it. There is no fear eating the food in this country. The food in Fiji is unbelievable. It is mostly seafood based. As I finished my last beer, I said with a startle, “what time is it?!” Toga’s looked at his watched with a concerned eye, “It is time to go, Princess. It is 3:30” My heart skipped a beat. We were an hour away and still had to pick up my suitcase for my 6pm flight. “No worries,” Toga said, “We will get you there, no sweat.” Toga was right; he got me there. However, there was lots of sweat involved. First I had to have a battle of wits with a cocaine dealer and an Australian visa.

The Restaurant.

Lunch.

As we are driving along, my nerves start to calm. We are almost back to the hotel and making great time. Just as I go to make a sarcastic joke about our great timing, a loud bang came from the front of the car. A tire popped and incongruently    so did my confidence in making my flight. We rolled down a bumpy road to the most ghetto-looking service station I have ever witnessed. Toga advised me to take a seat in front and he would go around back and change the tire. 

The white van holding 6 gallons of cocaine.

As I got out, a white van pulled up (as seen in the picture above). There were three men who exited the van, each carrying two gallon sized bags of cocaine. At this point in the story, people wonder how I knew it was coke and not any other white powdery substance. The truth is, I didn’t. I have just watched a lot of CSI reruns and automatically go to the worst case scenario. It was not until the leader exited the service station that I knew I was correct. He walked out, glanced at the van, and then directed his eyes on me. The blonde, white girl, with a bow and sundress whom had just watched him walk past with 6 gallons of cocaine. He made a beeline in my direction. Flinging is arms angrily in the air he shouted, “What did just you see?” My heart both stopped and raced at the same time. My hands started to shake. I wanted nothing more than my trusty guide to come around the corner in our fixed van. “Nothing!” I started, but he seemed annoyed with my answer and meek nature. I built all my courage to say boldly (even if I was about to pee my pants), “I saw nothing but sugarcane. This is one of the top sugarcane producing nations in the world, is it not?” I said it all with a straight face and coy smile like it was a line I had rehearsed for days. I almost believed myself it was so good. Now I tried to breathe deep to slow my heartbeat to see if Mr. Drug Lord liked my response as much as I did. For what seemed like hours (probably 5 seconds) he starred at me with burning eyes, expressionless. It was then that he let out a villainous laugh and matched my coy smile on his face. “Cleaver girl you are,” with that, he turned around and shouted to his men to bring something out. They returned promptly with a giant ice chest. My mind raced. What was in there? Cocaine? Was that my coffin? Have I met my fate? I held my breath to find ice with an array of canned local beers. One of his men took one of the cans and threw it at me like a 100 mile an hour fastball. If you know me, you know that I catch like a girl without functioning hands. However, my fake cocky persona took over. I caught that sucker effortlessly and starting opening it with my left hand before it was even near my body. I watched the drug dealers smirk and open their beer and start chugging. I knew this game. Between college and ship life I was a pro at drinking beer quickly. I took it, pounded it on the table top, out of tradition, and drank every drop before any of the men. That’s right, I beat the drug dealers in the fun fun game of “chug the beer.” My parents should be so proud. Just then, Toga drove around the corner. I threw my can for a swish into the garbage and jumped into the van. I looked at the clock- it was 4:37pm. At that moment, the race against the clock was scarier than my experience that easily could have ended with me inside the ice chest.

By the time I picked up my bag at the hotel, paid Toga and said my goodbyes I had an hour before my flight was leaving. There were an array of delightful and terrible flavors in my mouth and smells all over my body reminding me of the stops we made along the way. The more I sweated, the more profound the smells became.

I ran up to the check-in desk, handed the girl my passport and got the dreaded pause from her stern face. “Excuse me miss,” she started, “where is your Australian visa?” Without air conditioning in the airport I was now sweating profusely and the drops started raining down harder. “My what? I do not need a visa to go to Australia! I am American.” Although the gal was losing patience with me she calmly said, “That is correct. If you were flying from the United States you would not need a visa. However, you are flying from Fiji.” Thanks for pointing out the painfully obvious, lady. I could feel the tears start to well up in my eyes. I think she could sense it too, she added, “It is not like normal visas; you can get it instantly online.”

She handed me a piece of paper with a website and held my bag as I sprinted to the internet café. Out of breath, I ask the attendant how to pay for minutes, he said, “You must do that at the gift shop. It is on the other end of the terminal.” Rather than wasting time cussing out the man whom did nothing wrong other than make my life miserable, I ran to the gift shop and then back to the internet café. In minutes, I had my visa and exhaustingly continued my marathon back to the check-in counter. The gal had my bag tagged and ready to go. She handed me my ticket and I ran like I was in the middle of the zombie apocalypse with a crowd of the undead chasing behind me. The world went in slow motion as I sprinted to the gate. I could not hear and see anything except the goal before me. All of a sudden I was brought back to reality when the intercom announced, “This is your final boarding call for Melbourne.” The aisle ways were packed. I started jumping over chairs like I was running the Olympic hurdles. I am pretty sure this was the only moment of my life that I could have actually qualified for the team. I watched them start to shut the doors as I am shouting to hold them as I am mid air, legs straddling benches and random luggage. I now have the attention of the terminal building. People started cheering for me. They made enough commotion that the workers standing at the doors looked up and held them open. I gave them both quick and disgustingly sweaty hug for holding the doors and letting me through. With that, I boarded my plane to Melbourne, Australia. Toga was right. I made it- sweaty, but I made it. Lesson I learned?: Always listen to your local shore excursion staff. I cannot wait to see what Korea has in store for me.

 Any questions, comments, or topic requests- I clearly listen! HA! blairkat@gmail.com

Have a great week. I leave for Korea for a year in 6 days!!!!!!!!!!!! AHHHHHH! Imagine the stories I will be able to tell.....

Next week we will get back to normal. 

LOVES!