A Mitigation, Not A Retraction

Alright, I don't have that much time but I feel like I should mitigate the negativity of my last post a little bit with a short list of the positive things that I've done up until now, the day I leave Fiji for San Francisco

• Woke up in a hammock on a white sandy beach with my book across my chest and watched the sun set on crystal water.
• Stayed up late (which meant 10.30pm on Barefoot island) drinking Kava, the traditional drink - made from a crushed root and water; it essentially gives you cotton mouth and helps you sleep - playing Fijian rules draughts (checkers to my fictional American reader(s)) on a rope mat with 15 locals.
• Snorkelled with Manta rays as they swam against the current in a channel between two of the Yasawa islands. Saw reef sharks underneath me and am conditioned enough not to give a damn.
• Snorkelled on a reef beside a resort in 5 foot of water and saw a school of at least 400 little yellow fish migrate from rock to rock eating coral, got freaked out a little by a titan triggerfish. Got terrified by the close proximity of two large reef sharks and splashed my way back to shore, laughing, realising that I am not, in fact, just yet, cool enough with sharks to swim with them unflinching.
• Dived, dived, dived.

Time's ticking out here and I must away to Nadi airport soon for the long flight to L.A. And while my thoughts are with those poor people who are still currently lost for unknown reasons aboard an Air France flight from Rio to Paris, I wish, to God, they weren't.

Another Shitty Day In Paradise

Right, I've been nice so far haven't I? I haven't had much cause for complaint on the bulk of this trip but moreover I've tried often in the face of good reason to stay chipper.You only need, if you have arranged without my knowledge or permission, a camera crew to follow me on and document my travels incognito, to rewind your tapes a few days to witness me being the positive counter to Adam's initial negative perception of this country.Well I've been forced to take up a counter position just lately so this once, indulge me, I'm going to get angry, okay? All strapped in and ready? Good.

I HATE THIS FUCKING PLACE

Nadi (pronounced, inexplicably, Nan-dee) is a dilapidated backward spread out refugee camp of a town. All the 'resorts', and this word is applied without justification to every business that offers accommodation - none of them live up to what it conjours in your mind - are divorced so much in random location and quality both from each other and places where the word paradise isn't used unjustifiably, like Thailand, as to make you wonder how they have the barefaced cheek to even pretend to have a tourist industry, let alone actively solicit the visitation of foreigners in pursuit of happiness.

I was warned by a deceptively pleasant customs officer, on arrival, to ensure the cab driver turned on the meter when he took us to New Town Beach, a trip that should, she said cost $5FJ (about EUR 1.80) That sort of advice soon goes without saying in most of South East Asia - so no worries there then- other than the immediate advertisment of a poor and dishonest population. Then again aren't most taxi drivers dishonest? Especially at airports? If I flick through my mental slideshow of holiday snaps I find that yes this is the case. At the taxi rank the drivers says, when we ask, as instructed, for a meter, that yes, he has one... But it only goes for 10km, and our destination is outside that radius. Complete bullshit, of course, but he says this in full view of the taxi rank manager.He tells us the fare is $10. Fine screw me out of two euros. Fuck you, who cares? On the way out the security guard stops the cab to make sure the meter is on - and it is - only for his sake. It's flicked off once we get through. We tell him that we don't have a place booked when he asks, but have done some light research online and that this looked like the best area. He tries to drop us out on a desserted road and finally takes us, to what we learned later, was probably the crumbiest joint in the area. Who cares? It's only for one night.Whatever.

Next day it's a bus to Pacific Harbour, the self styled 'Adventure Capital of Fiji.' There are 3 gift shops and 2 hotel/hostels there. Oh and a post office. Did I mention the post office? Well there's a post office there too. We shark dived, as previously mentioned, which salvaged something of the trip but the 2 days there were punctuated by overpriced accommodations, lousy food, torrential rain and drunken friendly advances from the locals which quickly became violent attacks from the locals. Incidentally, not only were these people clearly too drunk and hostile to the tourists but all out fights were ignored by the bar staff - a nice cherry to crown the dollop of cream that is their thus far service-with-a-frown. Almost every situation in which I've wanted to buy something or give money to someone for something I've had to physically acquire their attention and then feel like my custom is an open handed insult, not to mind inconvenience.

But we make it back to Nadi, consoling ourselves with the advice that we've gotten from everyone we've met who's been here. 'You have to get off the main island.'

So we book a trip that takes us to Mana island to dive a site called 'Gotham City.' And that's where I am now. So why am I not diving? Well there's only 1 instructor here and he's fully booked today. And the ONLY OTHER DIVE SHOP ON THE ISLAND WON'T TAKE MY MONEY! Seriously. They just flat out refused $400 becuase I wasn't staying with them. We can't even buy things from their shop! And we booked all this stuff, necessarily, from the mainland. Oh and all our meals are paid for too. Great, huh? Funnily enough, no. I was just given a plate of lukewarm macaroni and cheese in a queue! And all the while an interminable cycle of horrible, radio fodder, chart music is being pumped out with the volume all the way up to 11. And just the first 15 seconds of each song! There's a completely oblivious Fijian at a computer smiling away to himself as he starts up a , say, Lady Gaga tune. Then 9 seconds in he starts a Beyonce track, then 12 seconds later Who let the Dogs Out? - a questions I've been asking myself more and more lately - in a constant maddening cycle.

It's crossdressing night here tonight and apparently you don't get served unless properly (or improperly I suppose) attired. Ordinarily I'm cool with some such nonsense but my usual good nature and patience are being put under a lot of stress right now.

Not 30 minutes ago I walked along the beach far enough away to escape the tumble dryer of top 30 hits and asked a local if I might lie in an unoccupied hammock on an almost empty beach in front of an empty hotel and she said 'No, it is not allowed.' I would have to be a guest in a different hotel for that...

So I walked back here thinking at least my old friend the net will help me vent but the generator is off between 10am and 3pm here so I'm foiled again. I'm actually writing this with a pencil, grudgingly lent to me by the peevish, sow-faced woman in charge, on the back of my faxed itinerary, the one that saved me being refused entry to New Zealand only 2 weeks ago.That's dedication, you say.No, it's raw anger. This has taken long enough so that the "DJ" has stopped ruining me with his listening habits and has been cathartic enough to downgrade a real Fuck-The-World mood to simply a Fuck-Fiji one.

We keep being told that $100 a night is a cheap way to see paradise. But none of this comes close to the Gulf of Thailand or anything nearby and everything costs 400% more. And even at that we're being treated like shit and being told we should be grateful. We dearest Fiji, I invite you to perform a lewd act on yourself. My heart belongs to South East Asia.

An Update upon typing this out from the original: I didn't get to dive that Gotham City site either. Weather was too choppy. And I was hungover as hell when we did dive the 7 sisters site, which was pretty nice but we had to walk down the beach fully kitted up both ways so no more diving for me. Especially since the showers here are icy cold too. They show real creativity here in destroying the potential in raw material as wonderful as the natural landscape of these islands.

But that's only another minor gripe. Worse yet, with all my little hardships and group complaining during the last 48 hours I forgot the birthday of someone special yesterday. They'll let it slide, I hope, and let me start it's making up with a little late but doubly wished Happy Birthday!

The Bistro

There's an island just south of Pacific Harbour, where we stayed in Fiji, called Beqa (pronounced Ben-ka) and the straight of water between it and the mainland is just referred to locally as 'the passage.' It's the middle of the pacific ocean so you shouldn't be too surprised when I say there are plenty of sharks around the place. What might sound a little more surprising is that you can go diving in those waters. What might begin to multiply the hopefully rising levels of disbelief is that yesterday I did, in fact, dive in those waters. And we, the dive boat, took two 250 litre drums full of fish heads and guts down with us. And then opened them. And then waited... This is 'The Bistro.' The craziest dive I have ever done.

So what happens? Well a bait ball started to form. A towering swirl of Giant Trevally, Groupers and Great Emperor fish. And they're all pretty big. And after a couple of seconds you're so hypnotised by this that you hardly even notice the 6 foot bull shark that swims across the background. And by the time you do there's a shadow that passes momentarily above your head and it's another one on his way to dinner. And before you have time to freak out you're kneeling 25 meters below the surface 4 feet from 8 wild sharks. Eating.

Brandon, the guy who swam into the middle of them pulling space hopper sized chunks of fish heads is a real defender of sharks. He speaks impressively about all the species, their feeding habits, their behaviour and their possible extinction. He's involved with the local government to try to stop the insane amount of 'finning' that goes on (a shark is pulled from the water by a fisherman, stripped of it's dorsal, tail and both pectoral fins and thrown back into the water to drown or starve at the bottom). He's been doing this for almost ten years now and never had a problem with them but as I watched him literally smack a wild shark on the nose because it was swimming right at his head I couldn't help but think 'You crazy bastard...'

Am I doing too many crazy things lately? It's starting to feel like it.

The Bridge Over The River Fear

Me. Freefalling.


The morning of Wednesday, May 21st, 2009 I woke up with a medium strength hangover. It was unreasonably cold outside and drizzling a little. The drama of the landscape served as a minor distraction, as did the starbucks coffee we both drank on the 20 minute drive to Kawarau but ultimately our minds were focused on what lay ahead. The idea of jumping off this bridge had transmogrified from a giddy and distant abstraction to a sharp impending reality. The car was silent. We savoured our coffees as though they might be the last drink we'd have. I imagined the wind whipping around my body and thought about how hard it would be not to look down.

I'd been thinking about doing this for a long-ish time and the more I swirled it around in my head the more dread I attached to it. I thought about how the most fun way to do it would be to abandon all hope and just dive gleefully into the abyss. To let go and savour the fear. And I thought about how impossible that would be, how almost every step along the evolutionary path had reinforced mechanisms in the brain to not only fear heights and falling from them but to actively contravent conscious instructions to the body which commanded the individual to leap from anything much higher than itself. I thought about how it would be a waste to leave Queenstown not having done it. And I thought about how it would be a waste if I had to be pushed. I knew the real thrill lay in pushing oneself.

For months now I had tried to trick myself into not thinking about it by resolving to just not do it. I said to myself and anyone who asked that it wasn't for me, that I wouldn't enjoy it. That all this passe thrillseeker rubbish wasn't my bag. And it worked for the most part but once Adam had booked his I couldn't let it slide much longer. I had to stop trying to decieve myself and admit that it was going to happen all along. That I was no different from the hundreds of others who had done it. I had something to prove to myself also.

And yes there have been many before me and there will be many after: older, younger, weaker, stronger, braver and more fearful but as you're standing at the edge telling your brain to tell your body to jump I defy you to tell me those thoughts were a comfort.

When I checked in, I tryed a little gallows humour. The bloke who weighed me was used to it.

"How many times have you done this?" I asked.

"Oh I wouldn't do that... Too dangerous, mate." he said with a smile. We're led to the edge. Adam goes first but I don't see the jump. When I'm led out to be strapped in I ask again. Again the guy says he's never done it, that it's too dangerous, and again that knowing smile that tells me he's probably jumped off everything taller than himself in the country.

And then I'm standing there. Someone tells me to wave at the camera. Are you ready?

I've already jumped.



I still can't believe this is me...

P.S. Through the giddy and delighted laughing as the rope tensed and I was sprung back up I could see Adam sitting on the shore below. I shouted to him "I THINK I'VE LOST THE BABY!" but he didn't hear.

I can't wait to do that again.

On Queenstown being made of equal parts beauty and fear

You cannot imagine how beautiful it is here. You either know because you've been here or you don't but it's impossible to have the gaping beauty of this place imparted by words or pictures (a fact that somewhat undermines my project for the next forty minutes as my internet kiosk time counter clicks down). I had been told, I'd seen pictures and to be honest despite it all, before I left, I'd always had more of a soft spot for the idea of the exotic that is brought to mind by the thought of travelling through south east asia but god I wasn't expecting this.

I could stop trying to achieve the impossible now and just say this is a cold Laos and be done with it, since heretofore it's the most beautiful country I've seen, but I'd be doing the place an enormous disservice if I didn't at least mention that I couldn't drive more than two minutes today and yesterday without wanting to pull over or slow down or say something stupid like 'Jesus look over there'.

And that reminds me: I don't generally like driving. I got my first car when I was 17 and the novelty wore off pretty quickly. Maybe it's because I play too many video games. The same fact might be a reasonable explanation of why I'm mostly unimpressed with real life boxing; the virtual equivalent of both is full of so much more visual and visceral hyperbole that it sort of dampens the colour of the real thing. Until now. I've been driving for almost 10 years now and I can honestly say I've had the most enjoyable spells behind the wheel (of our rented Toyota - a car this time, thank christ) of my life in the past two days. Beautifully maintained roads wind through canyons and along mountainous ledges beside massive lakes backed by row upon row of white torn-paper mountains. A serious delight.

I'd planned on riding horses through this country; a kitsch and slightly tacky hangover from Lord of the Rings but the weather hasn't been right during our short stay. However a couple of hours ago I did take a ride on the Shotover Jet. 80 clicks an hour doing 360s through a canyon, shaving teethlike rocks as close as a couple of inches might not sound intially like a relaxing afternoon's entertainment but believe me with the prospect of what awaits me tomorrow it seems akin to embroidery or flower pressing.

I told myself and everone else that I wouldn't Bungy jump here. Since I knew we were coming here, which has been quite a while, I had been torturing myself with the idea of it and I decided to just live like I wasn't going to do it. That way, I reasoned, I wouldn't be walking around here trying to smile through the lurching ball of fear that is currently sitting squat in my stomach. You see, while we waited for our driver to pick us up today Adam booked his jump (at a bridge which I'm told was the site of the first ever jump; bungy that is, not regular :) ) and it got to the point where I couldn't pretend it wasn't an inevitability anymore. So there we are, my plans for the immediate future are as follows: Get sushi in town tonight and follow it with a few beers. Wake up at around 9am, check out of here and throw my stuff in the car. Jump off a bridge. Drive to the airport. Almost sounds reasonable. Almost.

A bona fide mountain. One of an infinite number on the most beautiful road I've ever driven; the one between Queenstown and Glenorchy.

A snapshot while Adam was at the wheel of what it looks like for almost every second of that glorious 45 minute drive.

Here I am, impressively well layered even if I do say so myself - considering I had to pack for both tropical islands and alpine ski town, looking cavalier with the man himself before getting thrown around shotover canyon in the afore mentioned Jetboat.

Here we are getting thrown around said canyon in said boat. Second row from the back on the left clenching our respective sets of teeth.

Real life kiwi ducks who swam across the lake and got out to say hello as we took pictures. Of course you won't be able to ignore the look of disappointment on their faces here; they had just realised neither of us spoke a word of duck. Maybe they were looking for directions or something but whatever it was they got back into the lake quicksmart.

The driver of this ship did some showboating (ahem) before he picked us up.