Bula!

There's an old bluegrass song about the Big Rock Candy Mountain, where alcohol streams trickle down the rocks, and the jail bars are made of tin. That place is real.

Well, I don't know about the jail bars (or even the police, which don't seem to exit here), but this is a pretty good attempt at paradise. At least that's the side of Fiji that I've seen over the last two days. Tim is buttering Sam and me up (as if we needed it), before we go spend the rest of our trip at his house. The three of use are staying at the Sofitel resort, which is the type of place that most of us think of when we think of Fiji. Take a look.

I can deal with this place, if I have to.

The title of this post is the Fijian word for hello, by the way. It's 50% of the Fijian that I've picked up; I've been a bit slow on the uptake. The alcohol doesn't help. Tim, on the other hand, sounds like he's lived here all his life. He keeps impressing the locals (and Sam and me) every time he opens his mouth. In fact, his ease with the locals had us drinking Grog with a group of taxi drivers the night that I arrived in Fiji.

Grog is made by filling a large bowl of water with Yaqona, a nice little plant that has some pretty impressive psychotropic properties. It isn't a narcotic, but it has a similar effect, using a slightly different neurological pathway. Long story short, I've never found my hands so interesting.


And now, for a few more local pics.




This is type of place that turns anyone into Ansel Adams; you just point and shoot, the scenery takes care of the rest.

Mom, former professors, and those easily offended, please skip the next two paragraphs.

Everyone else, we've really been having a good time. The breakfast at our hotel had a champagne bar, and that starts the ball rolling every morning. It still hasn't stopped. Well, actually it did stop yesterday when Sam smashed a champagne glass in the middle of the buffet, inspiring management to cut off champagne service for him and everyone else. (For the record, he probably wasn't drunk, that's just something Sam does. He'd already broken three of our in-room glasses, too.)

I don't want to dwell on this part of the trip for too long--since this is a travel journal, and not a MySpace page--but there are a few other highlights to point out. Sofitel's Banana Daquiris: outstanding. And last night, while we were waiting to take the bus to dinner, Tim hijacked one of the hotel's golf carts. Sam and I may have hopped in, too. (I don't remember, officer.) A crowd of thoroughly amused New Zealanders were waiting for the bus as well, and one of the more ambitious (or drunk) of them hopped in the cart, and then immediately realized how bad of an idea that was. ("Ay, mate, why don't I just 'op off here, my wife's going to kill me.") Tim circled back around to the front entrance of the hotel, and dropped us back off. He then had a pretty hard time parallel parking on the left side of the road (remember, the British laid out their roads). To the amusement of all of us bystanders, one of the Kiwi's yelled out, "must be an American."

Putting those hijinks behind us, we've spent the rest of today in the real Fiji. The resorts were a facade (a wonderful, wonderful facade, but a facade, nonetheless). The real Fiji is very rural, very poor, and very rough. Tim's apartment is basic, but seemingly safe and hospitable.

Notice the "refrigerator" under the table. However, his local market was very impressive.


The few areas that I have seen are clearly struggling, but the people are all optimistic and very friendly. There are obviously more important issues to the Fijians than their government and GDP. I'm paying close attention.

M

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