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 2nd,
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
3rd 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”.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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 7th 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 7th 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.
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| The Restaurant. |
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| 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.
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| 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.
Next week we will get back to normal.
LOVES!
