At The Beachouse

The days in fiji so far have passed slowly. I’m still unable to shake my work routine and can’t sleep a wink past 6 am, so at least I’m getting the most out of my days. Fiji has been a breath of fresh air, a sort of renascence perhaps, a chance for me to awaken and rediscover traveler mode. The flight was easier than we thought, a time release valium took about 8 or 9 hours away from the crammed, stinky, Air Pacific flight, and then the three hours on the local bumpy bus flew by as the promise of rest and relaxation became closer as we slowed around each turn. It was a relief to get to The Beachouse, our spot for the first week. We were a bit skeptical as we approached. To be perfectly honest, the idyllic setting is a bit lacking. The beach isn’t the pristine postcard shot that you hear about, those islands are way out to sea and a bit costly to get to. Instead we are in a tropical spot, still nice, but more adapt to lounging and relaxing than exploring the ocean.
I’ll stop my complaining now, the place isn’t that bad. At the moment I’m typing in a hammock tied between two palm trees, low tide to the left, a swimming pool and bar to the right. It’s warm, but not hot, and the beating rays of the sun are dampened a bit by the fast moving clouds and the cool ocean breeze. Everything is green, the trees are full of coconuts, and the room is quiet and simple, with the odd sound of mating geckos on our walls waking us up in the morning. The place is complete with a nice happy hour (about $1.25 for a draught Fiji Gold beer), a self service kitchen, decent restaurant (about $6 for a dinner entrée of curry, veggies, and rice). The nights are silent, cloudless, and pleasant, and we are very happy.
Today we took the minibus trip into the town of Sigatoka, 40 minutes back towards Nadi. The town is nothing much, just a lazy, tangled web of streets perched along the side of a river, the train trestle bridge collapsed in the water, and other evidence of the Typhoon that ripped apart this side of the island in December. We walked the hot, muggy streets, amazed at the friendliness of the smiling locals, towering dark skinned men and women, all greeting us by nodding and saying “Bula” as we past. We wandered through the market, each stall with pretty much the same thing as the one next to it. We settled on frozen Wahoo fish, potatoes, long beans, onion, garlic, for four people, the total coming to about $6, reminding me how cheap the local markets are, and the need for us to visit them whenever we end up in a city that’s too expensive. The hot, stuffy markets are the place where you really get the local feel. The smells, colors, food, and people make up the interesting dynamic of Fijian diversity. There are of course the locals, bulky, strong, and dark men and women, with a natural smile, and worn hands and feet, evidence of a life of labor, and a strong passion for rugby. Then there are the Indians, brought by the English, and with them the curry, spices, hot peppers, and the instinct to work hard, the reason why the English sent them there in the first place. The mix of religions are evident everywhere, small Methodist churches in each town, Buddhist shrines near the city centers, and clean white mosques off in the hills. The children of each are an interesting mix, Fijians in skirts and the women with hair in pigtails, fake white flowers adorning their hair. The Indians all where bright colored clothes, adorned with jewels, while the Muslims where burkas, even in this land of sun-soaked beaches.
The week here will pass slowly, but that’s ok. We may get bored, but that too, is ok. Our days of kayaking, lounging, and relaxing are a welcome arrival, and with our trip underway, life is good!

Relaxing in the hammock