Where to start...
This might be a little “confessionalish” but I don't really have many people to talk to here and a lot is going on, so I apologize if I give away too much. Every day is a new adventure for me, too, and maybe I can give some insight into what it's like living in a place so entirely different from my own. I'm living in my new village now. It's different, very different from the other village where I was. It's bigger here, with a population close to 400. It's very spread out and very much a farming community. Being away from a town or the city, the feel is very different, too, and everything has to be planned out very carefully. We get two buses a day, two that go to Suva and two that come from Suva. You miss the bus, you're stuck. Add to that my banking and all money is in Suva and almost every day something is going on, making it hard to leave the village.
NEW BEGINNINGS
I've had a busy first few weeks in the village. My first Monday I went fishing with some of the men. We hiked up to where one of the farms is, where you can easily get into the river. They tried fishing (spear fishing) but the fish were all dead because the water is dirty. So we boarded a bamboo raft and floated on down the river, stopping periodically for them to check for fish. We stopped, too, so I could find some ota, which is a leafy green that grows wild in the woods. We climbed upland and walked around through the thicket to pick the ota. Mind you, this was all barefoot. It's absolutely beautiful up there. The river winds through the mountains and honestly gets cleaner the further up you go, which I discovered on Thursday. Tuesday, though, was another busy day of fishing. I went with the women this time to a pond on another plantation, across the river. You swim across the river and hike a good 30-45 minutes (I have no idea the distance...) to the pond. Then you wade knee deep in mud and cow dung into the pond, with your gigantic fishing nets. The women have bamboo shafts buried in the mud to catch the eels, which they did (biggest eels I've ever seen). Some women use the nets to scoop up fish, others just dive and catch them. They then bite the heads to kill them and either put them in bags or tuck them into the folds of their shorts until they get to land. It's fascinating to watch because they have their whole routine down. You walk around the periphery of the pond- “walk” is a fluid term because half the time you're swimming, half the time you're pulling your feet out of the muck- to find the best spot, all the while pulling your bags/catches tied to a bamboo pole behind you. Knee deep in mud. The traditional mud bath. Then you walk back through the pasture (eating guavas along the way) and swim back across the river to the village to scale and cook your fish.
Wednesday was not quite as exciting, although I did learn how to cook rourou, another leafy green (the leaves of taro/dalo), in bamboo. You stuff it down in the bamboo- which you wrestle with with your machete- in little balls and then you cook it over the first. When it's done, you wrap it in banana leaves with onions and salt. Yum yum. I ate mine with yams.
Thursday picked up a little as Josi, my landlord/caretaker, and I went back to the plantation to pick rourou. Picking rourou means again trekking knee-deep through mud and cow shit to pick off the leaves, which then stain your hands. Before this, though, I drank fresh milk. From the cow to the fire to my stomach, with a few tablespoons of sugar. It was really good, but unfortunately the first time I got sick the next day. We ended up helping some of her family catch their fish, which they did further up in the original spot in the river with a much larger net. Rode the bamboo raft again (fondly called “HMS No-come-back) further upstream where the water was cleaner. I got to actually swim and hitch a ride on bamboo, which you literally ride while swimming along the river. The water felt so nice and refreshing and cool. And the scenery is absolutely stunning, no joke. Apparently there was some kind of “Eco-challenge” there a couple years ago, and someone said something about The Amazing Race, too. To top off the day, after the swimming and being pulled along by the bamboo, I rode a horse. Bareback, of course. All in all a full and productive day.
Another day I went to farm yaqona root, which is the grog that sustains Fijians. This plantation is also across the river, on a mountain ridge. I can't even estimate how long it took to walk up there, but it was a long long time. It was beautiful, again, of course, because you can see all these mountains in the distance and the jungle foliage and the village across the way. Yaqona grows as multiple branches into one plant, which you dig up and tear apart parts of the root. The branches are then replanted for another plant. It takes about 3-4 years for a yaqona plant to mature and throughout the plot of land we were working on you can see any number of different size plants. In the one trip we made to weed and harvest, we harvested one plant, which took a couple hours. We also weeded, using a machete to hack away the weeds and clear the drainage path. What you can't hack, you pull up by hand. This is going uphill, of course, barefoot and in both the rain and blazing sun. Going back down was not quite as enjoyable as it took twice as long in the rain. Literally, this path is a mud trail. Needless to say, I pretty much slipped and scooted my way down more than I actually walked. It was a muddy mess and tested almost all of my fears. If you've never farmed on a mountain ridge barefoot in the rain, I don't know if you've actually lived. On the way back, I was so tired and nerve-wracked that not even walking through the muddy cow shit affected me.
The thing I'm continually fascinated with is that these men and women are doing all of this because they have to, and they're doing it by hundreds of years of perfected methods. There are no gadgets or gizmos, no bait, no fancy fishing equipment, no motors, no rods, no beer, nothing telling you exactly where the fish are at how deep levels of the water. No fish is too small. You are fully in touch with the earth. If you don't catch anything, you don't eat. If you don't go to the farm, you don't have your dinner. So you make sure you get something. You farm on the mountain because where else will you farm? Most of this farming is done organically, and I'm not really sure what I can bring to the improvement of farming practices because they practice crop rotation and have multiple crops (banana, coconut, and papaya trees, dalo, cassava, yaqona, cucumber, pumpkin to name a few) growing at the same time and what do I know about farming in the tropics on a hillside?
Because of all this, I find myself starting to change. Maybe it started the minute I stepped on the plane back in Madison, which feels oh so long ago, or maybe it started in Nakaile, or maybe it started Monday when I started over again. The concept of time for Fijians is totally different than Americans. So is the idea of food, relationships, family, and work. It sounds cliché, but I ask myself about the “point” of life here. For the people around me, the point of life, the reason to get up everyday, is to eat. You need to feed your family. You get someplace when you get there. You meet when you hear the drums. You go to work, on the farm, after breakfast. While the idea of time, or lack thereof, is sometimes infuriating, I think I'm doing pretty well. I'm learning a lot about patience. Nothing happens quickly here, except for covering up your yaqona as it's drying out in the sun and it starts to rain suddenly- which happens a lot here.
OBSESSIONS
Food has become such a central focus of my life. I've heard that PCVs get obsessed with food, and I can totally see why. It's easy to do because your life revolves around food. You don't eat, you don't survive. It's simple. And here, it's such a social activity. It could be that I also finished reading Michael Pollan's In Defense of Food-- let me go on a tangent for a minute. While this book didn't really tell me anything I didn't already know, it told the science and politics behind what I knew and reinforced so many of my values that I have been mocked for in the past (by my family, uh huh). Food is so important in our lives and it's something we usually pay no mind about. The food we eat has enormous consequences not only for our lives and health but also for the environment, economy, and future of all humankind. Sounds dramatic, I know, but if you really really think about it, you'll realize how integrally tied our lives are with what and how we eat. Take a look at the book, I urge you, and if nothing else read the last chapter. I especially did like that Pollan points out that a lot of us can be eating differently, we only choose not to. You see people in Lexuses and BMWs shopping at Wal-Mart and eating McDonald's, the people who can afford to spend money on foods from smaller markets or more upscale dining establishments that use locally grown and/or organic food. We just don't think about where our food is coming from and what goes in to producing it. Another point I also really liked that Pollan made was about the difference between organic and local. Organic is becoming just another buzzword. To go back to Wal-Mart, they have “organic” products now. Stop and think about it. Is buying something from Dole that claims to be “organic” from Wal-Mart really the same as buying Don's tomatoes from the Farmer's Market in Madison different? He doesn't use pesticides or fertilizers and yet as a small scale farmer can't afford the organic patent. Does that make his tomatoes any less organic than those that Dole claims to sell? Those that may only be partially grown organically and then shipped from South America or Spain, but still qualify under FDA regulations. Which is better to buy? Organic standards have been lowered significantly the past couple of years in the US. If you buy organic, just know where it's coming from. Buying local is so much better than any label you could look for in a supermarket. And, as Pollan identifies, money is so relative. He hits it right on when he says that Americans are willing to pay exorbitant gas prices (that really aren't that exorbitant if you consider the cradle-to-grave cost), pay for cable and satellite dishes, have multiple phones/phone lines, DSL, new clothes and shoes and purses, etc but aren't willing to spend a couple dollars on fresh, organic, and locally grown produce. It might be costly in the short term, but in the long run, the health benefits far outweigh the decision to have another name brand purse or food that's better for your body and the Earth. I'm just saying.
Back to food in Fiji: life is centered around food. Everyday most of the family goes to one of the gardens to get the day's meals. The “gardens” are the plantations next to the village, in the village, across the road from the village, and across the river from the village. Each family has a plot of land. When you're eating and someone walks past, you call that person to eat with you. If your neighbor or family member doesn't have food, you share with them. Any event can call for a big feast, which the women prepare and the men eat first. I've helped feed the class 8 kids as they took their exams, the 12 and under rugby team after Saturday practice, the teachers' meeting, the Sunday meal after church, and so on. Everyone brings something to share and all eat from giant plates full of dalo, cassava, chicken, beef stir fry, dahl, coleslaw, rourou, and every kind of fish dish you can imagine. I've eaten so many fish... On Sundays the day is spent eating, cleaning up from eating, and then resting from eating.
The other obsession I have is feet. I used to hate feet. They're dirty, ugly, and mine are short and stubby and hairy and deformed. And then I got here, and realized how important feet are. To back up, the whole evolution of the human body based on geography has become an obsession. To anyone who refutes evolution, I say take a look at a Fijian body and take a look at an American's body. Drastic differences. To return to the feet issue, Fijians have enormous feet. They have to. Shoes are a fairly new idea here and most people still live their lives barefoot. They walk on paved and unpaved roads barefoot, cross the rocky and/or muddy rivers barefoot, go to the farm without shoes, hike the mountains barefoot, fish barefoot, ride the bus barefoot, go to the city barefoot.... you get the point. The Fijian foot is shaped to hold the body up and to withstand the ground underneath. Their feet are wide and heels thick. I can't even describe what a Fijian foot looks like except to compare mine to theirs, mine being a small, soft, babylike babied piece of my body. The foot cream that Mom bought on clearance for me is just another piece of clutter in my house. There's no way I can use it. If I groom my feet, I am asking for pain everyday, not to mention the fact that I'd have to explain how my feet are so soft and why. It's not practical at all, and I'm sure Morgan is quivering in disgust. Looking at everyone's feet has become a fascination. My feet are developing a thick skin, rough and tough. Oh, and I've also never had my feet touched so much by people noting their progress! It's only too often my feet are a topic of conversation!
THINGS I LIKE ABOUT FIJI
Fijians aren't too concerned with appearance (as long as you dress the dresscode). I have to look so silly trudging to the shower with my shampoo, face soap, body soap, toothbrush, toothpaste, and towel. It's refreshing. But I am constantly amazed with Fijian bodies. There are 7 year olds that have more muscle than I have. The young boys are all lanky skinny little boys who can shimmy up a coconut tree with their knees literally parallel with the ground. The men have bodies withered and glistening from being in the farm everyday. Their muscles are huge, especially their thighs and upper arms, built for hauling firewood on their backs, playing rugby barefoot (it's said Fijians use coconuts to play rugby with if they don't have a ball), hacking down bamboo and yaqona, and doing any number of physical chores that are a part of daily life. And the women, they have their own evolutionary parts. What looks like an overweight woman is really just someone whose breasts are made for one purpose: to feed babies. I mean that in all sincere bluntness. The really empowering thing about breastfeeding is that it's so natural here. It's no secret thing, just a matter of life. I've seen so many women breastfeeding in so many different places, there would literally be about 100 lawsuits in line in America. (My only issue is that some of the kids are too old to be breastfed- when they can lift up the shirt and find the nipple on their own, when they're walking, when they're teething, seems a little too late to be breastfed.) Women can lift these huge boiling hot kettles from the fire barehanded and pour out tea as naturally as I can write my name. Their calves are thick and taut. They can trudge through the ponds and mountains carrying sacks of food like feathers. Except no one notices the bodies, with the exception being mine. I can't say how refreshing it is to be around people who don't care what you like or smell like. I do however get on a regular basis, “'O koko levu! Bulabula, levulevu. Vinaka!” or, “Oh, you're a big lady. Healthy, fatty.” I'm pretty sure it's a compliment but one my Americanism hasn't yet been able to shake.
At night, I can look up at the sky and see stars. Lots of stars. The moon seems to shine brighter here. I've seen the Milky Way. Palm trees silhouette against the dark sky and it's absolutely mind boggling to me that I'm here. The sky is actually dark, something that you don't often see in America.
Everyone has been extremely friendly. Fijians are very hospitable, very gracious, and very giving. I'm supposed to be cooking for myself. I bought a two burner gas stove and dishes and utensils. But everyday, someone brings me food. In one day I got two breakfasts, roti and banana pancakes. People are always giving me cassava, yams, breadfruit, bananas, ota. I'm invited to dinners and lunches regularly. I've attached myself to a family who have all been really great. There's Na Ula and her two kids, one who is 21 and the other who is 14 and Salote and her daughter Ecelaina, who is 7. Ecelaina is one spunky fiery little girl with this big head of wild blond curly hair (and perpetual lice). She can climb up and down the hills wearing my Chacos carrying my machete in the rain like it's nothing. It's been with them that I've harvested the yaqona, picked ota (which I found out is a fern), harvested cassava, eaten pumpkin leaves (a new favorite), and where I spend most of days. I help garden and then we eat and sleep awhile, shower and then cook and eat again. They've fed me more meals than I can count and taught me a lot.
I spend a lot of time talking about America. It's good, I think, because the thing people here identify with America is money. “There's a lot of money in America,” is something I hear consistently. And how do you explain that yes, there is a lot of money but it's not evenly distributed and the cost of living is really high? I try to explain this, that there are some people with a lot of money and a lot of people with a little money and most just get by in the middle. I want to say that America has been a capitalist country for far longer than Fiji, and Fiji's economy is weak and trying to grow. Money and globalization are new concepts for Fiji. People are now so into money here but yet I want to say to them that there's only so much money they need? It's things like school fees, electricity, flour and sugar, and bus fare that cost money here, all of which are products of the “Western” world. Fijians depend on flour, sugar, salt, and tea for every meal but it doesn't seem to occur to people that their ancestors lived without these for hundreds of years. It's so aggravating because the culture is starting to become so materialistic. I spend a lot of time talking about guns and trying to explain the different levels of government and about ARnold Schwarzegger (No, I haven't met him I have to tell people). People get glued to the TV for hours. I have absolutely no patience for the TV anymore (to note, in my village I don't think they actually can watch the one TV station Fiji has, Fiji One, but instead watch these horrible awful movies from America, the Philippines, and South Korea or music videos by people like Celine Dion). But some “Arrested Development” would be so indulgent some days that if anyone can burn some DVDs............ Australia, New Zealand, England, and America are extremely influential here and materialism is on the rise. I hate saying this but it is inevitable. I don't like it and I want to change it, but how do you do that? The funny thing is, people will have “stuff” here but it becomes decoration. No one really sits on their chairs and couches, unopened packages of toys hang on the wall, stuffed animals sit on tables. It's this weird dichotomy of worlds.
To maybe put things in perspective, the entire country of Fiji has as many people as the city of Milwaukee. Metropolitan Milwaukee wipes Fiji off the map. When I tell people this, they're full of disbelief. Understandably so, and still I want to tell them about the enormity of someplace like China. I have a hard time trying to describe Wisconsin, too, because I think WI is such an amalgamation of the U.S. We have some big cities and we have small towns and villages. We have farming, which is definitely something people relate to here, and we have forests. We have lakes and rivers and it's not a dense state. The weather is hot and cold. We don't have coconuts (!) but we do have apples.
This might be a little “confessionalish” but I don't really have many people to talk to here and a lot is going on, so I apologize if I give away too much. Every day is a new adventure for me, too, and maybe I can give some insight into what it's like living in a place so entirely different from my own. I'm living in my new village now. It's different, very different from the other village where I was. It's bigger here, with a population close to 400. It's very spread out and very much a farming community. Being away from a town or the city, the feel is very different, too, and everything has to be planned out very carefully. We get two buses a day, two that go to Suva and two that come from Suva. You miss the bus, you're stuck. Add to that my banking and all money is in Suva and almost every day something is going on, making it hard to leave the village.
NEW BEGINNINGS
I've had a busy first few weeks in the village. My first Monday I went fishing with some of the men. We hiked up to where one of the farms is, where you can easily get into the river. They tried fishing (spear fishing) but the fish were all dead because the water is dirty. So we boarded a bamboo raft and floated on down the river, stopping periodically for them to check for fish. We stopped, too, so I could find some ota, which is a leafy green that grows wild in the woods. We climbed upland and walked around through the thicket to pick the ota. Mind you, this was all barefoot. It's absolutely beautiful up there. The river winds through the mountains and honestly gets cleaner the further up you go, which I discovered on Thursday. Tuesday, though, was another busy day of fishing. I went with the women this time to a pond on another plantation, across the river. You swim across the river and hike a good 30-45 minutes (I have no idea the distance...) to the pond. Then you wade knee deep in mud and cow dung into the pond, with your gigantic fishing nets. The women have bamboo shafts buried in the mud to catch the eels, which they did (biggest eels I've ever seen). Some women use the nets to scoop up fish, others just dive and catch them. They then bite the heads to kill them and either put them in bags or tuck them into the folds of their shorts until they get to land. It's fascinating to watch because they have their whole routine down. You walk around the periphery of the pond- “walk” is a fluid term because half the time you're swimming, half the time you're pulling your feet out of the muck- to find the best spot, all the while pulling your bags/catches tied to a bamboo pole behind you. Knee deep in mud. The traditional mud bath. Then you walk back through the pasture (eating guavas along the way) and swim back across the river to the village to scale and cook your fish.
Wednesday was not quite as exciting, although I did learn how to cook rourou, another leafy green (the leaves of taro/dalo), in bamboo. You stuff it down in the bamboo- which you wrestle with with your machete- in little balls and then you cook it over the first. When it's done, you wrap it in banana leaves with onions and salt. Yum yum. I ate mine with yams.
Thursday picked up a little as Josi, my landlord/caretaker, and I went back to the plantation to pick rourou. Picking rourou means again trekking knee-deep through mud and cow shit to pick off the leaves, which then stain your hands. Before this, though, I drank fresh milk. From the cow to the fire to my stomach, with a few tablespoons of sugar. It was really good, but unfortunately the first time I got sick the next day. We ended up helping some of her family catch their fish, which they did further up in the original spot in the river with a much larger net. Rode the bamboo raft again (fondly called “HMS No-come-back) further upstream where the water was cleaner. I got to actually swim and hitch a ride on bamboo, which you literally ride while swimming along the river. The water felt so nice and refreshing and cool. And the scenery is absolutely stunning, no joke. Apparently there was some kind of “Eco-challenge” there a couple years ago, and someone said something about The Amazing Race, too. To top off the day, after the swimming and being pulled along by the bamboo, I rode a horse. Bareback, of course. All in all a full and productive day.
Another day I went to farm yaqona root, which is the grog that sustains Fijians. This plantation is also across the river, on a mountain ridge. I can't even estimate how long it took to walk up there, but it was a long long time. It was beautiful, again, of course, because you can see all these mountains in the distance and the jungle foliage and the village across the way. Yaqona grows as multiple branches into one plant, which you dig up and tear apart parts of the root. The branches are then replanted for another plant. It takes about 3-4 years for a yaqona plant to mature and throughout the plot of land we were working on you can see any number of different size plants. In the one trip we made to weed and harvest, we harvested one plant, which took a couple hours. We also weeded, using a machete to hack away the weeds and clear the drainage path. What you can't hack, you pull up by hand. This is going uphill, of course, barefoot and in both the rain and blazing sun. Going back down was not quite as enjoyable as it took twice as long in the rain. Literally, this path is a mud trail. Needless to say, I pretty much slipped and scooted my way down more than I actually walked. It was a muddy mess and tested almost all of my fears. If you've never farmed on a mountain ridge barefoot in the rain, I don't know if you've actually lived. On the way back, I was so tired and nerve-wracked that not even walking through the muddy cow shit affected me.
The thing I'm continually fascinated with is that these men and women are doing all of this because they have to, and they're doing it by hundreds of years of perfected methods. There are no gadgets or gizmos, no bait, no fancy fishing equipment, no motors, no rods, no beer, nothing telling you exactly where the fish are at how deep levels of the water. No fish is too small. You are fully in touch with the earth. If you don't catch anything, you don't eat. If you don't go to the farm, you don't have your dinner. So you make sure you get something. You farm on the mountain because where else will you farm? Most of this farming is done organically, and I'm not really sure what I can bring to the improvement of farming practices because they practice crop rotation and have multiple crops (banana, coconut, and papaya trees, dalo, cassava, yaqona, cucumber, pumpkin to name a few) growing at the same time and what do I know about farming in the tropics on a hillside?
Because of all this, I find myself starting to change. Maybe it started the minute I stepped on the plane back in Madison, which feels oh so long ago, or maybe it started in Nakaile, or maybe it started Monday when I started over again. The concept of time for Fijians is totally different than Americans. So is the idea of food, relationships, family, and work. It sounds cliché, but I ask myself about the “point” of life here. For the people around me, the point of life, the reason to get up everyday, is to eat. You need to feed your family. You get someplace when you get there. You meet when you hear the drums. You go to work, on the farm, after breakfast. While the idea of time, or lack thereof, is sometimes infuriating, I think I'm doing pretty well. I'm learning a lot about patience. Nothing happens quickly here, except for covering up your yaqona as it's drying out in the sun and it starts to rain suddenly- which happens a lot here.
OBSESSIONS
Food has become such a central focus of my life. I've heard that PCVs get obsessed with food, and I can totally see why. It's easy to do because your life revolves around food. You don't eat, you don't survive. It's simple. And here, it's such a social activity. It could be that I also finished reading Michael Pollan's In Defense of Food-- let me go on a tangent for a minute. While this book didn't really tell me anything I didn't already know, it told the science and politics behind what I knew and reinforced so many of my values that I have been mocked for in the past (by my family, uh huh). Food is so important in our lives and it's something we usually pay no mind about. The food we eat has enormous consequences not only for our lives and health but also for the environment, economy, and future of all humankind. Sounds dramatic, I know, but if you really really think about it, you'll realize how integrally tied our lives are with what and how we eat. Take a look at the book, I urge you, and if nothing else read the last chapter. I especially did like that Pollan points out that a lot of us can be eating differently, we only choose not to. You see people in Lexuses and BMWs shopping at Wal-Mart and eating McDonald's, the people who can afford to spend money on foods from smaller markets or more upscale dining establishments that use locally grown and/or organic food. We just don't think about where our food is coming from and what goes in to producing it. Another point I also really liked that Pollan made was about the difference between organic and local. Organic is becoming just another buzzword. To go back to Wal-Mart, they have “organic” products now. Stop and think about it. Is buying something from Dole that claims to be “organic” from Wal-Mart really the same as buying Don's tomatoes from the Farmer's Market in Madison different? He doesn't use pesticides or fertilizers and yet as a small scale farmer can't afford the organic patent. Does that make his tomatoes any less organic than those that Dole claims to sell? Those that may only be partially grown organically and then shipped from South America or Spain, but still qualify under FDA regulations. Which is better to buy? Organic standards have been lowered significantly the past couple of years in the US. If you buy organic, just know where it's coming from. Buying local is so much better than any label you could look for in a supermarket. And, as Pollan identifies, money is so relative. He hits it right on when he says that Americans are willing to pay exorbitant gas prices (that really aren't that exorbitant if you consider the cradle-to-grave cost), pay for cable and satellite dishes, have multiple phones/phone lines, DSL, new clothes and shoes and purses, etc but aren't willing to spend a couple dollars on fresh, organic, and locally grown produce. It might be costly in the short term, but in the long run, the health benefits far outweigh the decision to have another name brand purse or food that's better for your body and the Earth. I'm just saying.
Back to food in Fiji: life is centered around food. Everyday most of the family goes to one of the gardens to get the day's meals. The “gardens” are the plantations next to the village, in the village, across the road from the village, and across the river from the village. Each family has a plot of land. When you're eating and someone walks past, you call that person to eat with you. If your neighbor or family member doesn't have food, you share with them. Any event can call for a big feast, which the women prepare and the men eat first. I've helped feed the class 8 kids as they took their exams, the 12 and under rugby team after Saturday practice, the teachers' meeting, the Sunday meal after church, and so on. Everyone brings something to share and all eat from giant plates full of dalo, cassava, chicken, beef stir fry, dahl, coleslaw, rourou, and every kind of fish dish you can imagine. I've eaten so many fish... On Sundays the day is spent eating, cleaning up from eating, and then resting from eating.
The other obsession I have is feet. I used to hate feet. They're dirty, ugly, and mine are short and stubby and hairy and deformed. And then I got here, and realized how important feet are. To back up, the whole evolution of the human body based on geography has become an obsession. To anyone who refutes evolution, I say take a look at a Fijian body and take a look at an American's body. Drastic differences. To return to the feet issue, Fijians have enormous feet. They have to. Shoes are a fairly new idea here and most people still live their lives barefoot. They walk on paved and unpaved roads barefoot, cross the rocky and/or muddy rivers barefoot, go to the farm without shoes, hike the mountains barefoot, fish barefoot, ride the bus barefoot, go to the city barefoot.... you get the point. The Fijian foot is shaped to hold the body up and to withstand the ground underneath. Their feet are wide and heels thick. I can't even describe what a Fijian foot looks like except to compare mine to theirs, mine being a small, soft, babylike babied piece of my body. The foot cream that Mom bought on clearance for me is just another piece of clutter in my house. There's no way I can use it. If I groom my feet, I am asking for pain everyday, not to mention the fact that I'd have to explain how my feet are so soft and why. It's not practical at all, and I'm sure Morgan is quivering in disgust. Looking at everyone's feet has become a fascination. My feet are developing a thick skin, rough and tough. Oh, and I've also never had my feet touched so much by people noting their progress! It's only too often my feet are a topic of conversation!
THINGS I LIKE ABOUT FIJI
Fijians aren't too concerned with appearance (as long as you dress the dresscode). I have to look so silly trudging to the shower with my shampoo, face soap, body soap, toothbrush, toothpaste, and towel. It's refreshing. But I am constantly amazed with Fijian bodies. There are 7 year olds that have more muscle than I have. The young boys are all lanky skinny little boys who can shimmy up a coconut tree with their knees literally parallel with the ground. The men have bodies withered and glistening from being in the farm everyday. Their muscles are huge, especially their thighs and upper arms, built for hauling firewood on their backs, playing rugby barefoot (it's said Fijians use coconuts to play rugby with if they don't have a ball), hacking down bamboo and yaqona, and doing any number of physical chores that are a part of daily life. And the women, they have their own evolutionary parts. What looks like an overweight woman is really just someone whose breasts are made for one purpose: to feed babies. I mean that in all sincere bluntness. The really empowering thing about breastfeeding is that it's so natural here. It's no secret thing, just a matter of life. I've seen so many women breastfeeding in so many different places, there would literally be about 100 lawsuits in line in America. (My only issue is that some of the kids are too old to be breastfed- when they can lift up the shirt and find the nipple on their own, when they're walking, when they're teething, seems a little too late to be breastfed.) Women can lift these huge boiling hot kettles from the fire barehanded and pour out tea as naturally as I can write my name. Their calves are thick and taut. They can trudge through the ponds and mountains carrying sacks of food like feathers. Except no one notices the bodies, with the exception being mine. I can't say how refreshing it is to be around people who don't care what you like or smell like. I do however get on a regular basis, “'O koko levu! Bulabula, levulevu. Vinaka!” or, “Oh, you're a big lady. Healthy, fatty.” I'm pretty sure it's a compliment but one my Americanism hasn't yet been able to shake.
At night, I can look up at the sky and see stars. Lots of stars. The moon seems to shine brighter here. I've seen the Milky Way. Palm trees silhouette against the dark sky and it's absolutely mind boggling to me that I'm here. The sky is actually dark, something that you don't often see in America.
Everyone has been extremely friendly. Fijians are very hospitable, very gracious, and very giving. I'm supposed to be cooking for myself. I bought a two burner gas stove and dishes and utensils. But everyday, someone brings me food. In one day I got two breakfasts, roti and banana pancakes. People are always giving me cassava, yams, breadfruit, bananas, ota. I'm invited to dinners and lunches regularly. I've attached myself to a family who have all been really great. There's Na Ula and her two kids, one who is 21 and the other who is 14 and Salote and her daughter Ecelaina, who is 7. Ecelaina is one spunky fiery little girl with this big head of wild blond curly hair (and perpetual lice). She can climb up and down the hills wearing my Chacos carrying my machete in the rain like it's nothing. It's been with them that I've harvested the yaqona, picked ota (which I found out is a fern), harvested cassava, eaten pumpkin leaves (a new favorite), and where I spend most of days. I help garden and then we eat and sleep awhile, shower and then cook and eat again. They've fed me more meals than I can count and taught me a lot.
I spend a lot of time talking about America. It's good, I think, because the thing people here identify with America is money. “There's a lot of money in America,” is something I hear consistently. And how do you explain that yes, there is a lot of money but it's not evenly distributed and the cost of living is really high? I try to explain this, that there are some people with a lot of money and a lot of people with a little money and most just get by in the middle. I want to say that America has been a capitalist country for far longer than Fiji, and Fiji's economy is weak and trying to grow. Money and globalization are new concepts for Fiji. People are now so into money here but yet I want to say to them that there's only so much money they need? It's things like school fees, electricity, flour and sugar, and bus fare that cost money here, all of which are products of the “Western” world. Fijians depend on flour, sugar, salt, and tea for every meal but it doesn't seem to occur to people that their ancestors lived without these for hundreds of years. It's so aggravating because the culture is starting to become so materialistic. I spend a lot of time talking about guns and trying to explain the different levels of government and about ARnold Schwarzegger (No, I haven't met him I have to tell people). People get glued to the TV for hours. I have absolutely no patience for the TV anymore (to note, in my village I don't think they actually can watch the one TV station Fiji has, Fiji One, but instead watch these horrible awful movies from America, the Philippines, and South Korea or music videos by people like Celine Dion). But some “Arrested Development” would be so indulgent some days that if anyone can burn some DVDs............ Australia, New Zealand, England, and America are extremely influential here and materialism is on the rise. I hate saying this but it is inevitable. I don't like it and I want to change it, but how do you do that? The funny thing is, people will have “stuff” here but it becomes decoration. No one really sits on their chairs and couches, unopened packages of toys hang on the wall, stuffed animals sit on tables. It's this weird dichotomy of worlds.
To maybe put things in perspective, the entire country of Fiji has as many people as the city of Milwaukee. Metropolitan Milwaukee wipes Fiji off the map. When I tell people this, they're full of disbelief. Understandably so, and still I want to tell them about the enormity of someplace like China. I have a hard time trying to describe Wisconsin, too, because I think WI is such an amalgamation of the U.S. We have some big cities and we have small towns and villages. We have farming, which is definitely something people relate to here, and we have forests. We have lakes and rivers and it's not a dense state. The weather is hot and cold. We don't have coconuts (!) but we do have apples.
Pictures from top left: This is where I get my water from and brush my teeth every night. I fill up buckets and bottles for the day and that's what I use. Next, this is one of the foothpaths in my village. My host dad with the WI hat I gave him. Our group doing a traditional dance at the Swearing In Ceremony. My house! My kitchen (i did not pick out the Winnie the Pooh fabric). Some kindergardeners doing a dance.
