Fiji Time

When we arrived in Fiji John and I were skeptical as to whether we would enjoy it here. It was a dramatic change in culture and a slowing down of time. As Americans we felt the need to be on the go, always doing, always seeing. Guilt begins to set in if we did nothing. The slow pace here felt stifling. But now, after two and a half days to adapt, Fiji time is agreeing with me.

The heat here makes a slow pace, a more comfortable pace. While strolling through the outdoor market for an hour, I twice took a seat on a bench just to rest. Since nothing happens quickly here, why be in a rush to do it? Buses leave when they are full or when the driver has finished his tea, (the driver will even wait at a stop while a passenger runs back to his house for his shoes), stores close for lunch (for two hours, give or take) and everyone has time to sit and talk and sip Coca-Cola.

Coca-cola is the heat-beater here. With mountains of empty bottles piled at every store, one could easily mistake it for the national beverage. To cool off, we drank it too. One 750 ml bottle costs $F1.50 and accompanied most every restaurant meal we ate. The actual national beverage (yes, there really is one) is Yaquina. It is made by grinding Kava Root into a powder and mixing it with water. Several men will sit around a bowl of it drinking from a single coconut shell. Yaquina is known to give the drinker a bit of a buzz.

As for food, you can get just about anything in Fiji: Fijian fare, Indian curries or European meals. Other than lunches though, we bought our own vegetables and grains from the local market and cooked in our dorm room.

The Bus to Sigatoka

We had no idea what we were in for when we loaded onto the local bus bound for Sigatoka. Sigatoka is situated along the southern (Coral) coast on the big island. I would say that an experience like this should definitely be part of anyone's trip to Fiji (once).

At 9:30am we crowded like sardines into the open-air bus, paid our fare (collected by the driver who passes up and down the narrow isle, squeezing and stepping wherever possible) and waited for the bus to pull away from the station. After a lengthy stop (after all we are on Fiji time), the driver gunned the engine and we sped off. A plume of black diesel smoke trailed behind us and for two hours we got healthy lungs-full to accompany the dirt we ate from the road.

My nerves were becoming more and more frazzled the further we got. The road eventually thinned to one lane and at one point we made a sharp left to cross a river on the wooden planks of a train track. At the other end of the river there was another sharp turn back onto dirt. I wished the driver would stop turning to talk to the man behind him. Such roads require undivided attention. Further on, we were confronted by another vehicle and it became clear, as we barreled up to it, that our bus driver had no intention of yielding. He had a horn, that was yield enough.

Constantly throughout the ride, the bell was rung. This signaled the driver to stop. Each time, there was a sizeable wait while a passenger clambered and climbed his way to the front. Before leaving each passenger is required by law to hand in his ticket. Fijians apparently love to crumble things and almost every ticket was produced in a wad from a pocket or handbag. I found the notice about producing a ticket interesting if not ridiculous.

The driver of this vehicle is required to issue a ticket for each passenger paying the appropriate fare as required by Section 67 of the Traffic Act.
Any passenger found without a ticket on this vehicle will be committing an offense and will be required to pay another fare and on conviction shall be liable for $50 or imprisonment up to three months.
Passengers are therefore requested to collect from the Driver or Conductor a ticket for the amount of fare paid at the commencement of the journey, retain the same throughout the journey and are required to produce it on demand.

So best to be on your toes in case the driver forgets to hand you that invaluable pink slip of paper.

The bus ride, although long and bumpy (several times I literally flew out of my seat), did give us a first hand view of the Fijian standard of living. We passed several villages of metal houses with thatched roofs. The windows were usually broken or missing and the insides consisted of cement floors with mats and foam mattresses. Occasionally I did see a run down sofa or arm chair. The yards in most cases were small and surrounded by sugar cane fields. Oxen and goats wandered freely and children ran barefoot around the houses. At almost ever doorway, a group of men stood chatting or just hanging out.

Eventually the bus rolled into Sigatoka and we disembarked. It took a good ten minutes before the nerves in my behind regained consciousness.

The Sigatoka market across from the bus (bus stations are always across from the market) was similar to the one in Nadi and we stocked up on fruits and veggies. After walking around town a bit we had lunch and then we caught another bus to Koratoga. Dusty's was our home for the night. It was a dorm for six, but since the season is slow now for tourists, we had the place to ourselves.