The Sound of Fiji

The sound I wish I could record is the snap, crackle, pop of the coral underwater and my Darth Vader breathing as we snorkel over the reefs- something we've done nearly every day since we've been here. Second to that, though, the most universal sound in Fiji is the subtle whoosh of the ceiling fan.

The crabs here are nearly translucent and have very tall eyes. They bury themselves in the sand, so that as you look down towards the water you see little stalks of eyes peering out at you over the beach. We flew over from the main island on a plane with 12 seats and all of our luggage in a compartment in the nose under the pilots. Also on the plane with us was a native Fijian fellow and his American wife. They have a landscaping business in Oakland and run kayaking tours here a few months of the year. He grew up on a little island off the coast of Taveuni with his parents and 11 other siblings. He remembers the first time he saw white people. Two German tourists came over to the island on a boat and he and his brothers and sisters ran into the woods- they were so terrified. The man who opened the door to the plane when we landed was a cousin of his. So were the two taxi drivers who met the flight. So was the man who had come to the airport to hang out for the afternoon. I wanted to ask why and how he had come to leave this place, but the plane was too loud, and it seemed an impertinent question. Later in the conversation he told me: “We don’t have elections in Fiji, we have coups.”

Of course, Fiji also has gorgeous white sand beaches, coconut palms for miles, and incredibly beautiful people.The women wear their hair in short afros and the men are thick and muscular with long eyelashes and ready smiles. I think our friend Travis would have an easier time buying pants here.

Many Indians were brought here by the British as indentured servants to work the sugar plantations, and four or five generations later they are still a big part of the population. There seems to be an interesting, but fairly uneasy relationship between the native Fijians and the Indo-Fijians. Only native Fijians can own land, which leaves the Indo-Fijians to operate many of the businesses. It’s all Patel’s Hardware, Bhimla’s Curry Shop, and Vinod’s Milk Bar everywhere you look. Kacy understands much of the Hindi spoken, and the curry spices are reminiscent of what we’re used to. Of course, so much else is different. After a few days in Delhi, we were very ready to leave India. The pollution and the chaos and the people everywhere… India is a remarkable country and we both look forward to going back, but for now, sitting on the beach eating papayas and coconuts in a place that’s clean and warm and relatively simple to negotiate, feels just about right.

One of the women who works at this place has an Indian boyfriend. She jokes that he's very ugly, but she's lucky because he's a Christian, not a Hindu. She took us to the Catholic church with her last night for the Christmas Eve midnight mass. There were so many people, they had moved the ceremony to a giant barn with a loudspeaker amplifying the priest's blessings and sermon. We sat on the floor- and stood, and sat, and knelt, and stood- and smiled at everyone around us and listened to the incredible choir. The priest was barefoot. There were pigeons in the rafters.

Earlier in the afternoon, a group of Methodists had come caroling. They stood on the beach in a semi-circle and sang familiar Christmas carols transposed into Fijian. This is certainly a whole other way to imagine the holiday season- with the sound of warm waves underneath.

I’m sitting on the beach as I write this, under a little thatched hut in front of the place we’re staying. Kacy is peeling sugar cane to eat.

A woman just walked down the beach and came up to ask me: “Ma’am, just one small question. Have you seen a little grey goat?” I laughed and told her that I had not seen a goat on the beach, but assured her I would keep an eye out.