Bula Bula!

Hello from Viti Levu, Fiji. Bula is the Fijian hello. Literally, it means "Life". To me, "Bula!" is a word full of onomatopoetic value, for when you hear it and say it, exuberance is alive in the syllables.

English is the official language in Fiji, which is helpful to travelers like us! However, Fijians here speak Fijian, and Indo-Fijians (Fijians from India or of Indian descent) speak Hindi. These are the two main cultural groups in the Fiji islands, and those are the languages I hear on the streets of Fiji.

Mikey and I arrived in Fiji on April 30th, after leaving our new friends at the Polynesian Hostel in Honolulu on April 29th. We crossed the dateline and sprung forward a day, skipping most of Friday and arriving on Saturday afternoon. We had a brief layover in American Samoa, where we got a lovely view of the tarmac and hundreds of coconut palms.

When we landed in Nadi, Fiji my heart was racing, partly from excitement and partly from the actual landing, which is perpetually my least favorite part of flying. But, almost as soon as the wheels hit the ground, I felt calmer, sensing a certain slowness in my new surroundings. We disembarked into the heavy tropical heat. Fiji's heat is different from Hawaii heat, it's heavier and more dense.

In the airport we got our first taste of "Bula! Bula!". A band plays in the Fijian Airport to welcome visitors, three or four men with guitars and ukeleles playing traditional Fijian songs. We got distracted by the music (typical Mikey and me) and stood in the wrong customs line for awhile. As it turns out, Fiji customs is not strict, and going through was much less stressful than normal airport security at a large airport in the US. Very laid back.

Fiji smells different to me, sweeter, and once we got near the road, a bit like burning rubber and woodsmoke. We'd arranged for airport pickup with the Bamboo hostel, our home for our first two nights in Fiji. So, we piled into a Mercedes Benz with the steering wheel on the "wrong" side. We were met by a young Fijian man named Samo, and our driver was an Indo-Fijian man named Charlie. They drove us to the Bamboo, and as I looked around, I felt as if I'd gone back in time. I kept looking over at Mikey while we were in the cab, and both our mouths were hanging open. Fiji has very few traffic lights. Instead, they have traffic circles. I held my breath through a couple of those circles! Charlie was not messing around.

When we arrived at the Bamboo Hostel, four or five people stood outside and welcomed us with "Bula Bula Bula!!". One of the Fijian men said to Mikey, right away, "Sir, please, take off your watch, you're on Fiji time now!". (I giggled, because Mikey hardly ever wears a watch. He'd found a free one in Hawaii.) As it turns out, Fiji time is slower than Hawaii time.

The Bamboo hostel was a bit like a summer camp for traveling adults. Quite fun, and very inexpensive for us. Every night seven or so Fijian men sit in the little hut outside, drinking "grog" (Kava, or Yoqona in Fijian), and playing their guitars and ukeleles, and singing Fijian songs. We joined them. They explained the "correct" way to take grog, which involves a clap and a call of "Bula!", and three claps when you've downed the bowlfull (they don't sip, and it's no wonder, the stuff isn't really tasty, but it numbs your tounge in a short time). As it turned out, the "correct" way to accept grog is actually optional, as all the Fijian men abandonded the ceremonial aspects as soon as they'd taught us white people. Haha.

My favorite part of the grog party was the music. Those men sang like angels! I sat under the thatched roof and just listened to the perfect four part harmonies. Allow me to interject a little bit of background: when I was growing up in Blowing Rock, North Carolina, we had a black velvet scroll hanging on the wall. On the scroll were the words to a Fijian song, "Isa Isa". (My Dad spent quite a bit of time in the South Pacific Islands before I was born, and I think he worked on an economic development team in Fiji, sometime in the 1970's perhaps.) So, anyhow, when I heard this particular song come out, I grinned, and I even remembered part of the words. We spent two lovely evenings this way at the Bamboo Hostel.

Our second day in Fiji, we went out to the beach beside the hostel. Not the prettiest beach, but only because we've been so spoiled by Hawaii. Viti Levu (the island we landed on, which literally means Big Fiji in Fijian) is very lush, with green mountains rising into the sky, out of an otherwise flat landscape. We marveled. Soon, a man named Baba approached us and offered us a horseback ride!!! What luck. I've been wanting to go for a ride since we left home, but in Hawaii it was much too expensive, and mostly you go for group nose-to-tail walks, which is so not worth it. But Baba took us out by ourselves. Mikey says he's pretty much never ridden, but he has a good natural seat, I think! We had an awesome time, riding down the beach and around on a nearby golf course (ha!). The horse I was riding had a little foal, and he ran loose, following us the whole way. Adorable.

After we'd stayed two nights at the Bamboo hostel, we said our goodbyes, "Moce" (pronounced mo-they), and took a taxi into downtown Nadi (calling it "downtown" is a bit of a joke). We hopped out at the bus station, planning to take a bus, but before we got our tickets a van pulled up next to us. They offered us a ride for seven Fijian dollars, to Korotogo, where we'd planned to stay the night. I REALLY enjoyed that van ride. The driver went REALLY fast, and the other people riding were REALLY nice to us. A lady next to me, who was holding the cutest little boy, gave Mikey and I our first "roti parcel", curried potatoes wrapped up in roti, which is made with flour and water, fried into a pancake-tortilla type of thing. Yummy! People in Fiji are very curious when they see you are not from there. Most people would ask us, "Where you from, Australia?" And we would laugh, surprised. "No," we'd say. "USA!" And then it was their turn to be surprised. It was so funny and genuine. While we were in the van, we learned that any place on the road in Fiji is a good passing lane. A couple of times I held my breath and grabbed Mikey's leg. He just said, "Compared to India, this is the safest luxury ride in the world." So everything is relative, I suppose.

They dropped us off in Korotogo (pronounced Korotongo), and we walked to the Casablanca hotel, which we'd found on the internet. When we got there and checked into our HUGE CHEAP room, we figured we were the only ones staying there! We spent two nights at the Casablanca, and enjoyed every minute. The balcony of our Morroccan-style room gave a beautiful view of the beach, and we spent the evenings chatting with (or trying to understand, at least) an 80 year old Australian man with lots to share, the lady from Austria who is caretaking the place, and the young Fijian man who works there and is the clerk and cook and waiter.

We also took a day trip into Sigatoka (sounds like singatoka), the real town nearby. Sigatoka is next to the Sigatoka river, which gives it the name. The Sigatoka river, I believe, is the longest in Fiji (but not the widest). Sigatoka is a colorful, busy town (except on Sundays, when most everything is closed). We wandered, stopping to talk to people when they stopped to talk to us. Bollywood hits and Fijian songs blast onto the sidewalk from the storefronts, and salespeople draw you inside with calls of "Bula Bula!". We ate some real Indian curry at The Curry House, and I got embarassed there when the juice from a chilli pepper shot into my eye and I cried and made a bit of a scene. Whoops. At least I provided some entertainment, I suppose :)

After our second night at the Casablanca, my brother Austin came there and picked us up. I will write about our time at his farm in my next entry.

Love you all, friends and family!

Moce, Kristen