San Isidro

I've emerged from a nice sabbatical in Aimee's hometown-away-from-hometown.

After the fracas that was the Nicaraguan border post, the rest of the bus ride went rather smoothly. The roads were (mostly) paved, and I even saw some encouraging electricity-generating windmill construction along the countryside. And behind them was either a mountain with a cloud hanging over it, or a steaming volcano (which isn't as ridiculous as it sounds). Nicaragua is pretty seismically active, and has several volcanoes that have been teetering on the brink of eruption for decades, if not longer.

(In fact, seismic instability ranked just below political instability as the reason that engineers bypassed Nicaragua to build a canal in Panama. Some say that--other than these two admittedly serious reasons--the conditions are actually better in this country.)

The bus ride ended in the late afternoon with a nice reunion with Aimee in the Managua bus terminal. We didn't stay in the capital for long, though, since Managua is widely considered to be the ugliest city in the world. There was a pretty serious earthquake in the 70's, and, until recently, there hasn't been the political will or financial resources to clean up. So the city just stayed in a perpetual state of disaster. These days, you won't see too many collapsed buildings, but it still feels pretty run down.

We hopped on the next bus to San Isidro, where we arrived after dinner on the 30th. This was the town that Aimee spent most of her two years in. It's a quaint pueblo of 7000 people that we would call a bedroom community if there were actually jobs for people to commute to.


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A view of the city from one of the surrounding hills:



Each family seems to have one or two wage earners that support the rest of the family, including any unmarried grown children. There are a few jobs in the surrounding rice fields, as well as some in the local offices of a national cell phone carrier, but most people bus to the larger surrounding cities to work. Those that remain at home live la vida tranquilla, and help run the family store that many people (including our hosts) have in the front rooms of their houses.

Speaking of hosts, we're staying with the wonderful family that housed Aimee during her stay here. They have a clothing-focused general store in the front of their house, and are clearly one of the better-off families in town.

The store:



The courtyard in the center of the house:



Like I mentioned, this is one of the nicer homes in town. Most are brick or cement walled structures that are--by North American standards--very unfinished. Almost all of the homes have bare concrete walls, large gaps at the roof junctions, and Aimee tells me that many just have bare dirt floors. Kind of puts our recession in perspective, doesn't it?

And a few photos of the neighborhood:







The last one isn't actually of San Isidro, but rather of La Trinidad, a nearby city that feels pretty similar.

If you click the first photo to expand it, you can see one of the many horseback-riding locals. If I had to guess, I'd bet that for every car you see going down the road here, you'd also see a horse, three motorcycles, ten bicycles, and twenty five pedestrians. It's actually pretty nice. And not too surprising, since hardly any of the roads are paved.

All in all, it's a great community where the locals are friendly, and everyone greats you from their front porch as you walk down the street. But that just could be because Aimee's a bit of a local celebrity. On more than one occasion, we've been walking down the street, and a car will drive by, honk it's horn, and one of the passengers will yell out, "Hola! Aimee!" She's clearly a hit around here. I'm just arm candy.

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Lest I forget...

My passport was returned after the Nigaraguan border crossing, by the way. An immigrations agent carried a huge stack of passports to the bus, and called out our names. We then collected our passports as we boarded the bus. Only here. I love it.



And a quick note on the quality of the border photos. I know that they're not great, but taking photos of international borders is generally very illegal, and I really didn't want to find out Costa Rica or Nicaragua's thoughts on the subject. So I was forced to hide my camera in the folds of my backpack or shirt to snap a few pics. It's better than jail.

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Madness

I've been through a lot of border crossings, but I've never seen anything like the chaos that I witnessed today.

About 5 hours into my Costa Rica-Nicaragua bus ride, I noticed that our bus was slowing down. We coasted past dozens of idling semi trucks, and I assumed that we were coming up to the border. When I saw the other passengers start fiddling with their passports, I knew that they thought the same.

We pulled up next to the type of 1984 dictator-chic type of building that could only be a Latin American border post. But I was still guessing at this point, since the building was unmarked, and we hadn't heard so much as a syllable of instruction from our driver. But as soon as the bus doors swung open, everyone bounded from their seats, and I assumed that I should do the same.

Immediately after exiting the bus, I had a huge stack of cash shoved in my face. "Cambio? Cambio?" Alright. This is definitely the border.



I walked into the building, and I went straight for the "Entrada" line. But it didn't take me long to realize that I was waiting in line to enter Costa Rica. I needed to be in the "Salida (exit)" line. I had forgotten that this region's governments were just as concerned about their locals fleeing as they were about tourists entering. I was in the Costa Rican border building, and I had to "check out" with them before I set foot in Nicaragua.

(Editor's Note: Most Latin Americans are no longer living in the extreme fear and poverty that they were during the 70s and 80s, and aren't really interested in fleeing anymore. However, the strict exit requirements seem to have stuck around.)

So I moved over to the Salida line, and got my exit stamp from Costa Rica. But I wasn't sure about where to head next (or about any step in this process, for that matter).

(Well, what do we have here! As I'm sitting on the bus, writing about the Costa Rica stop in my journal, the driver just passed through the bus, asking for everybody's passports. As you know, relinquishing control of your passport is international travel taboo number 1, but I don't appear to have much of a choice. I hear a local woman arguing with the driver in the back of the bus, and another one just got escorted off, so they obviously aren't messing around. Ok, I just passed it off; if I never make it back, you know why.)

Where was I?

(Pause number 2: The driver just announced some instructions. Wow, that's some fast español, but I think I got it!)

Alright, back in Costa Rica, I surreptitiously attached myself to someone that I recognized from the bus, and made it back in one piece.

We drove a few hundred yards, and the bus slowed down again. This is when the bus driver did his whole passport seizure and unintelligible instructions bit, so we're all caught up with the story.

Now, for a bit of background. I never, ever, ever check bags. Especially when I know that I'll be crossing borders. I can just grab my backpack and breeze through customs while everyone else is retrieving their bags. However, I really needed to sleep, and I thought that the extra legroom would be nice. Besides, I hardly have anything with me on this trip. (Aimee's already questioned if I even brought a change of clothes.) So after a pretty lengthy inner monologue at the bus station, I checked my bag. But I shouldn't have.

As soon as we pulled into the Nicaraguan border station, everyone went to the side of the bus and began digging through the bags to find theirs. I didn't joint the fray, but I did use my height to make sure that there weren't any unwelcome additions or subtractions from my bag.



As the crowd started to clear out, I didn't see my bag, and I got a little nervous. As it turned out, my bag was wedged in the support beams under the bus, and never made it out into the luggage pile. Of course.

By the point that I crawled out of the bus' undercarriage (after my brief backpack search), most people were already in the customs line, and I had to wait at the back. It did give me a chance to look around and get my bearings, though.



Everyone was waiting in line to approach a single table that had a border agent and a miniature stop light. As each person approached the table, they would press a button on the table, and the light would turn either red or green. Red means that you'll be subjected to a full on, open bag customs inspection, and green means that you'll walk.



When it was my turn to face destiny, the customs agent performed one of my favorite travel idiosyncrasies: the mixed-language instructions. He looked at me, took my customs declaration (which said where I'm from), and said in English, "push".

AHHH!!!!! If I've even survived up until this point, I speak Spanish!!!

But maybe after 6 hours of holding down my vomit (rough night + early wake up + bumpy roads)--and stumbling my way though two hours of international border crossings--I'm just a bit cranky. It was a nice gesture, I suppose...

The light turned green, by the way.

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Carnival

This is a quick post, but there are a couple more coming soon.

I just wanted to show a photo of our last night in Costa Rica. We went to a huge carnival outside of San Jose. The featured event was a "bull fight" that was really more of a comedy show. The central theme was that a bull was let loose in a large arena, with a balloon tied on its back. Then the doors were opened, and the carnival-goers were released into the ring. Whoever was agile (or or drunk) enough to get close to the bull and grab the baloon was declared the winner, assuming that he or she was still alive.

(Un)fortunately, this event was sold out a long time ago, so I couldn't get in to snap some pics. Or get slaughtered by a bull. But we were able to to get into the carnival part, and I did get a picture of the front entrance.

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Pura Vida!

Alright. I'm sitting in a hotel room in Costa Rica, and I'm here with a friend of a friend's wedding party. We're staying just outside of San Jose, the capital of Costa Rica.


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Things had already been going on for a few days before I arrived, so I was planning on meeting them at their hotel. I had the name of the place, and I knew the general vicinity. But I didn't have directions, and I didn't even know the name of the couple being married. So, as soon as I arrived, I headed to the airport information counter and asked for directions. But unfortunately, he didn't know the hotel, and couldn't find it in his database. Of course.

But just as I had resigned myself to venturing off on my own, he found the hotel and gave me the "address". Here's what he wrote:

"50 mts sur de la Iglesia Catolica de la Immaculada Heredia".

I was clearly going to need a cab.

Addresses in Central America are an insider's game. You have to know where certain landmarks are (like the Catholic Church, in this case). And what's especially fun is when you're given directions that refer to a place that no longer exists ("It's two blocks from where the Pepsi factory used to be"). Great. The whole number-and-street-name theme really hasn't caught on here.

I did eventually make it to the hotel, and I met the motley group of people that were brought together by this couple's wedding. We went out for a quick drink at one of the local bars.



There's nothing new about a local bar--or about me drinking at one--but I do want to point out how clean the city is. This is the capital city of a third world country, and the sidewalks are almost litter-less, I never once felt unsafe, and there aren't many people living on the streets. I was pleasantly surprised. This observation was reaffirmed this morning when we woke up (quite early) to meet our bus to the rafting trip.



It's easy to forget that you're not at home.



Unfortunately, I don't have any rafting trip photos, since my camera is not much of a swimmer. You'll just have to take my word that the place was beautiful.

We moseyed our way through a beautiful tropical jungle, occasionally bobbing through Class 4 rapids (Class 6 is the highest). It was one of those experiences where you can struggle just to take it all in.

Ok. After a full day in the sun, I'm completely exhausted. Plus, I'm excited to go meet Aimee in Nicaragua tomorrow, so I'm going to go to bed now. I'll check back in from Nicaragua.

Salud.

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Sandinistas vs. Contras vs. Pandemic Diarrhea

I'm an easy sell for any travel. Always. But I'm especially excited about tomorrow's trip. I'll be heading to Nicaragua with my girlfriend, Aimee, for her long-awaited Peace Corps homecoming.

She volunteered from January 2005 to April 2007 in San Isidro, a small town in the center of the country.


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I'm sure that Aimee's parents will be following along, so now I've got two mothers to worry about upsetting. And my own mom still hasn't recovered from the Fiji stories. But then again, neither has my liver.

I've already had to field a lot of questions around the office. "Didn't you just get back from...where was it, Fuji?" Apparently, two extended trips abroad within three months is not the norm around here. Who knew?

I'm reading a great book on Nicaragua that Aimee recommended to me, called "Blood Brothers". It's written by Stephen Kinzer, who was the NY Times correspondent that first discovered the Contra camps in Honduras.

Some of you may remember the 1980s Nicaraguan Contra scandal, but even if you can't find Nicaragua on a map of Nicaragua, you'll love this book. It's a well written account of the country's fascinating recent history. I can't put it down.

But as good as the book is, I'm still getting most of my travel information first hand. Aimee wrote a travel blog during her time in Nicaragua (there's a reason that we're together), and I've been having a good time going through it. Without question, my favorite quote comes from a posting that she wrote to describe some local hand gestures.

Everyone here gets diarrhea, so when you want to refer to your diarrhea: Make a fist and bend and extend your arm out to the side of your body, starting at chest level and angling slightly downward. Give your arm a few quick jerks back and forth. If you want to say how bad or how long your diarrhea is, do it for awhile.

I'm hoping that this is just spot-on dead pan comedy. Because if she's serious, I'm in for a long three weeks.

By the way, if you'd like to see the rest, it's here

A quick rundown of the current news makes me think that this trip is going to be more about the Contra scandal than it will be about uncontrollable bowel movements (at least I hope so). Nicaragua is under some pretty heavy political stress that has its roots in the era of Carter and Reagan (or from a Nicaraguan perspective, the Somozas and the Sandinistas).

The Somozas were an extremely powerful political family that churned out a series of dictators during the first half of the 20th Century. They were violently overthrown (to say the least) by the Sandinistas, a group of populist fighters with a lot of good intentions, but not much governing experience.

The unfortunate truth about many People's Revolutions is that they often degenerate into the same type of totalitarian regime that they sought to overthrow. [See: China, Zimbabwe] But in their defense, I can't imagine that it's easy to form a truly democratic government when 1) you're extremely (and justifiably) paranoid about the exiled party returning the rebellious favor, and 2) the only example government that you've ever known was run by a tyrannical dictator.

And we thought that electronic voting machines were the biggest threat to democracy.

This pattern seems to be repeating itself with the current Nicaraguan Leadership. The president, Daniel Ortega, was a prominent Sandinista leader that played a huge role in overthrowing the Somozas. However, his current vision of governing may include stacking the deck to make sure that he stays in power. Along the way, Ortega has alienated a lot of former Sandinistas, and now seems to be running a party of one. But it is a powerful party, and one that doesn't appear to to be losing any clout. But then again, neither did the Somozas.

US Air doesn't fly to Nicaragua, so I'll be making a quick stop in Costa Rica. I'll spend a day visiting a Tucson friend who happens to be there for a wedding at the same time. Then I'll hop on a bus, and meet Aimee in Managua, the earthquake-destroyed capital city. Can't wait.

M

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Reality Bites

Ok, woah.

A serious dose of reality kept me from posting about my return. I did, after all, miss two weeks of work, two weeks of class, and two weeks of Daily Show episodes. But I did make it back in one very relaxed piece.

There's not too much to write about after a 14 hour plane ride (via United, which is no Air New Zealand, by the way).

Now that my mom is thoroughly convinced that I'm an alcoholic, I'd better tuck away for a few months to "fulfill" my "responsibilities". But I'll be back soon. I've already got the plane tickets for a New Year's trek through Nicaragua.

Viva Myles' Birthday!

Until then...

Redemption

A very fortunate chain of events had us back at Sydney Olympic Stadium (aka ANZ Stadium), but we actually caught a game this time.

We knew that there would be an Aussie-Rules Football game tonight (and we were pretty sure that we knew where), but we had been debating about whether or not to go. The weather had been crappy, but I was still looking for a way to make up for taking Tim to Yankee Stadium to watch the Knicks play.

After vacillating back and forth all day, we decided to head down to the stadium and see if we could get tickets at the door. We knew that the weather was keeping people home, so we were pretty confident that we'd get in.

While waiting for the train, we noticed some guys in Sydney Swans jackets, and asked them how to get to the game. They recommended another train that we ended up switching to. (Don't worry, I'm not wasting your time, this is an important detail.)

The train that we were recommended was actually much faster than the one that we took the night before. When it arrived at Olympic Stadium, we heard an MC, of sorts, directing people to the event. As we were walking, the MC asked if anyone needed a ticket (for free). Someone apparently had an extra, but no one took it, since everyone at the park already had theirs. But we didn't. So we gratefully accepted the ticket, and thanked its prior owner. (So it's a good thing that we took the train that we did, or else we would have missed the free ticket offer.)

As we were walking to the stadium, Tim noticed that the ticket was in the premium section. It was the most expensive class of ticket, and much nicer than the budget tickets that we were planning on buying. So our new plan was to just buy one cheap ticket, and then show the nice one to the usher, who would hopefully assume that our other ticket was just as good. We knew that the rain would free up a lot of seats, so sitting together would be no problem.

Turns out that if asked nicely, the woman at the box office can give premium tickets at severely discounted prices. Especially to friends trying to sit together, when one of them already has a nice seat.

So, armed with one free premium ticket, and one budget-priced premium ticket, we made our way to the field. About 20 rows from the field, to be exact. Right on the center line, to be very exact.


The game was great. Aussie Rules Football is a religiously popular rugby derivative that is played on a huge field. The point is to run the ball across the field and kick it though two field goal-like pylons. It's very fast paced, and had me jumping out of my seat throughout the game.

ESPN I'm not, but here's a clip of a jump ball followed by a quick goal. There are probably better clips online, and they're worth seeking out; the game's brutal.




By the way, Sydney won, again.

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Oh, that Sydney Football Stadium

I've outdone myself.

Tim and I spent today rounding out the Sydney attraction package with two tower tours. They were both nice viewpoints over Sydney, but the cloudy weather didn't lend to any amazing pictures.

The highlight of the day was supposed to be a rugby game. I bought the tickets a few weeks ago, to celebrate Tim's birthday. For whatever reason, I was absolutely positive that the game was at Sydney's Olympic Park. I was wrong. However, we didn't realize that until after we had a handful of beers in the pub across from the main Olympic stadium. By the time that kick-off was scheduled, there were only about 30 people at the pub, and no one at the stadium. Tim kept telling me that something was off, but I just assumed that the crappy weather was the reason for a low turnout. But when we got to the ticket counter, and found all of the windows closed, I came around.

There was an adjacent stadium (there are many in the park) that had its lights on, so we walked in to see if that's where the game was. There actually was a game going on, so we were getting closer, but it ended up being a youth game between a couple of local schools. When I realized that we were 0 for 2 on the stadium picks, I asked a pack of dads where the Sydney Roosters played. The told me that I was about 45 minutes away, and the stadium was surprisingly close to our hostel. I told them that I had tickets to the game (which was already underway), and they said that we'd have a pretty tough time making it. So, I decided to cut my losses, and I asked which high schools were playing where we were. At least we'd be able to catch one game. They that that I was hilarious. Tim didn't.

We decided to take our chances, and hopped back on the train. Not surprisingly, we were the only ones on the train. We should have been suspicious when we noticed that we were also the only ones on the train to the stadium.

Here's a quick run down of our journy. We started at A, went to the Olympic park at B, but should have gone to the Sydney Football Stadium at C.


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Oops.

By the time that our train arrived back in town, the game was nearly over. We decided to have a beer at a pub by the train station. They happened to have the game on.

Sydney won.

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That's a liter?!

Well, the good news is that I made it to Sydney. Let's hear it for discount airlines. I booked the flight two days ago,

The (bad? Well, let's just say "other") news is that I rekindled my affair with the bottle. Last night (my first night in Sydney) was the birthday of an Irishman that Tim and I met at our hostel.

And about that hostel. So, Tim and I had left it pretty open when it came to meeting in Sydney. We figured that we'd just email each other when we knew more. However, I left Melbourne before any of the internet cafes had opened, so I was pretty much flying blind. And to make it worse, there were no internet cafes in the Sydney airport, so I had to hop on the train without knowing where I was going. (Well, in all honesty, there was one internet terminal in the Sydney airport, but it was on the other side of security, and I didn't want to risk declaring Yaqona, again.)

Anyway, I took the train to Sydney Central Station. I figured that any "central" station couldn't be too far from wherever Tim was. I arrived at the station about 20 minutes later, and I found a nearby internet terminal. I had an email from Tim that told me to meet him at Town Hall by 4pm. It was 3:30, so I had about 30 minutes to 1) figure out where Town Hall was, and 2) get there. I felt like I was in a spy movie, racing against the clock. But then again, I always like to pretend that I'm in a spy movie.

Ok, wow, so before I revealed my inner 12 year old, I think that I was talking about an Irishman. His birthday had us drinking beers at a local pub. And drinking, and drinking, and drinking. (For the record, every time I've used the toilet lately, I check to make sure that I haven't crapped out my liver yet. It's only a matter of time.)

By the way, Tim and I also played tourist yesterday, and took a tour of the Sydney Opera House. You may have heard of it.


Thank you, thank you.

The rest of the photos were taken up close. Notice the individual tiling on the outside. The television shots don't pick up the grandfather's-bathroominess of the place.


Inside, at the intermission bar.


Me taking a picture of Tim taking a picture. Deep.


Another late night gem, taken from the Opera House grounds.



And that brings us to today. First stop: Sydney aquarium. Some highlights: The Eastern Long-Neck Turtle. Aka The Eastern Way-Cute Turtle.



I love this sign. Only in Australia.


And these are the f'ing pigeons. I love this place.



Our next stop was a harbour cruise. It was part of a package of attractions that we purchased (like the aquarium, etc.). A surprisingly filling fish and chips lunch left us both too tired to get a lot out of it, but I did get a photo to prove that I was here.



The evening was capped off by a pub crawl in The Rocks, Sydney's semi-touristy drinking district. We chatted with some of the bartenders, after noticing that most of them had an Irish accent. Turns out that they (and 13,000 other Irish 20-somethings) were on work-holiday visas, like Shawn, my non-kleptomaniacal roommate from the last hostel.

One of our stops was a German-owned, Oktoberfest-themed booze barn. They happened to sell one-liter beers.



Sigh.

My birthday present to Tim is a ticket to tomorrow's Sydney Roosters rugby game, so if I don't post again for a while, it's because I'm hungover.

M

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What tunnels?

Melbourne's a great city, but I felt like leaving it for a day to see some of Australia's famous coastline. I picked the Mornington Peninsula region to visit, since it was easily accessible by public transportation (it took a few hours, but the trip was well worth it). The drive down there felt a lot like San Diego, by the way, but it was still very impressive.



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I went to the visitor's center of Point Nepean National Park, my destination. I asked for some directions, and the park ranger told me that there was a 6km walk along the coastline to the fort.

"Wait, there's a fort?!"

Turns out that, despite a beautiful coastline, the main attraction was actually a fort that was build in the 1880's to defend Melbourne against whoever the 1880 Aussies were worried about. Who knew?

Nature, Schmature; I spent 2 hours crawling through underground tunnels!

The fort was based around two huge cannons that were intended to punctuate any invading ships (but, of course, never were). Here are the remnants of the cannon's shield.

But the scenery really was amazing.

Notice how the sky gets progressively more ominous in those photos. I got caught in a nasty thunderstorm 6km from the visitor's center. It also happened to be a Tuesday during the off season, so I was the only person walking though a huge network of tunnels. Semi-creepy, but fun.

I made it back to the hostel, and managed to book a cheap flight to Sydney. More in the next post...

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Boomerangs, kangaroos, and women's dormitories

Must...fight...urge...to...open...with...G'day, mates.

Alright, I'm sitting in an internet cafe after a day of walking through Melbourne. It's a great city, and I've got a bit to say about it, but I'd better start with last night.

I arrived at the Melbourne airport around 11pm, so I had to book it through customs to catch the last bus into the city. Australia, by the way, has the toughest customs regulations in the world. It didn't help that I had to do a little tap dance to explain that the large, unmarked paper bags that I was carrying contained an acceptable chopped green herb. (There was no way that I was going to leave Fiji without a bit of Yaqona.)

They did eventually let me pass with almost all of my possesions. I used the airport info desk to find a hostel, and then I took the bus into town.

The hostel that I stumbled upon didn't seem that bad. I figured that there was only a 50/50 chance of waking up with mysterious skin bumps. Not bad odds, compared to some of the places that I've stayed.

By that point, it was a bit after midnight, so I crept in as quietly as I could. I found an open bunk in the back. I unpacked a few things, and then left the room to brush my teeth. I came back a few minutes later and continued to arrange my area, until I heard a very soft voice in the darkness.

"Excuse me"

Now, I had been moving around like a ninja on cottonballs, so I thought, "No way, is she really going to tell me to be quiet!"

"Excuse me"

"Hi," I said.

"Hi. I think that this is a women's dormitory."

"Great. Good night."

Well, actually I used my conversational muffler to curb that response. It does work occassionally. But I did say that I'd go downstairs and find out. Turns out, it was. The clerk felt really bad, but I told him that this wasn't the worst predicament that a traveller could be in.

My second room assignment was with Rocky, a young Chinese architect, and Shawn, a South Korean on a work-holiday visa looking for farm jobs. They were friendly, and most importantly, didn't steal my stuff while I slept!

Ok, on to Melbourne. It's another green city that has great public transportation, and a lot of city parks. It's an interesting blend of Victorian and modern architecture, that will probably be clearer through pictures.

I'm going to head out to a coastal preserve tomorrow, and then meet Tim in Sydney on Wednesday. I'll probably check back in again after the preserve.

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The long road to recovery

The last couple of days in Fiji were marked by waves of celebration and recovery. Mostly recovery.

The three of us walked around Lautoka on the morning of Tim's birthday, and we happened to find a public carnival. It was a simple neighborhood fair that we've all seen as children.



The night of Tim's birthday was the blow out that it was supposed to be. And then some. We rinsed and repeated the following day at a fund raiser for Lautoka's over-60 field hockey team, containing such characters as this guy:



He's a native Fijian that says that he's 75, but I don't believe him.

Walking home, we didn't have much luck hailing a cab, so Tim flagged down the local police troop carrier that happened to be passing by. This was, with no exaggeration, only the third time that I had seen a police officer during my week on the island.

The officers already had a couple of local Fijians in the front seat, so they tossed us in the back, and asked where we were heading. Tim gave them directions in Fijian, and they happily gave us a ride. Very happily, by the way. I think that they were pretty excited to have some fresh meat in the truck.

This probably wasn't one of our better decisions, but Tim said that he had hitched a ride with them before. Apparently, they're quite bored. Here's us in the back with a riot officer and three of Tim's Peace Corps friends.



I look ridiculous.

The next morning, we packed our bags and said our goodbyes (through the hangover to end all hangovers). We hung out at a local beach by the airport until we had to go check in.



Sam caught his flight back home, and I left for Melbourne (where I'm sitting now).

All in all, not a bad run.

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Couch hopping in the South Pacific

I've slept on a lot of couches over the last several years, but none of them were, well, in Fiji. Sam and I have been sharing bunk space on the floor of Tim's kitchen/foyer/living room/dining room/den/study. It's nice to finally look behind the curtain into day-to-day Fiji life. (But I'm not saying that I don't miss the umbrellas in my cocktails.)

Tim lives in Lautoka, a small city on the northwest coast of Fiji's main island. The primary industry seems to be agriculture (mostly sugar).



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We spent our first night in Laukota at Tim's sports club. It's essentially a neighborhood bar where locals (mostly Aussie ex-pats) can get together and share a drink.




I don't think that we were there for an hour before Sam broke his fifth glass of the trip. And that was before the drinks even got flowing. And flow they did, by the way.

After a night of very punctuated sleep (and multiple trips to the toilet, face first), we woke up and got ready for a boat ride. One of Tim's many local acquaintances (another Aussie ex-pat) knows a group of Fijian locals that run a boat tour of the outlying islands. We joined about 40 other visitors for an all day tour. The boat ride included a delicious bbq and an open bar (yes, we participated). It also included a snorkeling trip off of one of the many outlying mini-islands. They're the type of deserted islands that we've all pictured. In fact, Castaway was filmed on one of them.



Here's Tim, halfway through an ill-fated flip attempt (with our snorkeling island in the background).



He's still rubbing his chest.

Today, we visited Tim's office, where he helps coordinate microfinance loans.



These loans of $20-$60 can help farmers buy seeds or help women start their own businesses. In fact, we ran into one of Tim's appreciative borrowers in the local market. Tim helped him acquire the funds necessary to rent a stand. If you look closely at the picture (click it to zoom in), you'll see the coins that a recent payment contained. These loans are very small (by our standards), but they go a long way towards helping people get on their feet. Interestingly, their payback rates are much higher than those for loans made by large banks in develped nations.

As beautiful as the scenery is, though, I'm having a hard time separating it from the less-than-beautiful reality. After all, this is every bit of a Third World country.







But even in poverty, people still have birthdays. And tonight, Tim has his. The sporting club won't know what hit it.



Happy birthday, buddy. We're proud of you.

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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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