Blue skies and broken hearts

We were fortunate enough to get away for Alex's last weekend here - out Viti Levu's rain shadow and into sunny skies. Leleuvia Island is the stuff that tropical dreams are made of - bures literally right on the beach. You can walk, snorkel or kayak around the island in less than an hour. If one side of the island is breezy, you just walk to the beach on the other side, around 50m away to lay down your beach towel.

Mike & I explored the tidepools at low tide - the bures can just be made out on the beach behind.

The only problem (besides the communal toilets) was that John and I exceeded the average age of the rest of the clientele by around 30 years, though they were extremely well behaved in terms of noise. It did remind me of Jeff Goldblum's line in the Big Chill that went something like "I get the feeling that there is a lot of sex going on around here".  I did occasionally have to remind myself that they were all adults, especially with the sun-burned ones, who I wanted to tell to put a t-shirt on. This pertained to my own children as well. At one point, I told John I was going to find Alex and Anna to tell them where we were. Then John pointed out it was 5:30pm and we were in the bar. Duh.

Where I laid my beach towel. Sickening, I know.

The entire weekend was tinged with a deep sadness, knowing that Alex would be heading back to the UK in early hours of Monday morning. Before my sister Ruth was diagnosed with cancer, my heart felt snug in it's protected place in my ribcage, my happiness inviolate. Now it's like I'm walking around with it on the outside of my body, completely vulnerable to any bump or bruise. There was a lot of crying and cuddling after the taxi drove off. We'll make plans to see him again sometime in the next month or so after he's settled into his new course and he's got an idea what sort of workload he's going to have.

When we woke up properly on Monday, it was moving day. It was also the hottest and stickiest day so far. It got hotter and stickier in three stages. During the first stage, I wondered if I could get away without wearing a bra. I entered the second stage when I started to fantasise about wearing disposable clothing. Finally, the idea of clothing of any variety seemed like a tyrannical plot. Around 4pm we finally moved all of our stuff into our new house and, lo and behold, the air con is only working in mine and John's room. Almost all of the delay about moving into this house has been about getting the air con to work. How naive were we not to check that all of the problems were sorted before we moved?

To cool off (physically and emotionally), Anna and I jumped into the university pool, which is unheated and never has anyone in it, so it's perfect. John arrived at the pool too close to closing to get in, so he walked over to the store to get stuff for dinner. He came home with ice cream, pasta, jarred ragu sauce, cheese and a remote controlled helicopter. Too bad he forgot the batteries, because we were forced to watch Fijian telly for the first time as our evening's entertainment.

The commercials are out of the 1980s, are repeated ad naseum and have catchy jingles like "you've got to wash, wash, wash your hands!" A University Challenge-type panel game with high school students demonstrated an interestingly diverse curriculum (Who will represent Fiji at this year's Pacific Sugar Forum? What's the difference between a warranty and a guarantee? Physics questions that I didn't understand the first time I heard them so cannot repeat here).

Anna and I stayed up and watched a dreadful modern version of Hawaii Five-O, the only resemblance to the original being the theme tune. Before I came here I thought that perhaps Fiji was a feral version of Hawaii, but I can say with complete certainty that it is not. What exactly it is, I'm not sure, but watching the telly here will certainly give me a better idea.

A deluge of rain and Pepsi

Sometimes it does not feel like I am living in paradise. It has been raining non-stop. Anywhere else everyone would be shocked and overwhelmed by the ferocity of the downpours (think Newcastle in June, but for several days). Everything is so wet. John tells me that foot rot is common here - it is not only in my imagination that my toes feel like them may drop off of my feet. Everything has a sheen of greasy dampness to it - the floors, the dining room tables, the bedsheets - it's enough to make one want to blowdry one's life.

The dampness, living out of suitcases and the thought of Alex going back to the UK soon has been a little emotionally challenging. However, looking at the bright side of life, eating out here has relatively inexpensive and mostly a delight: Indian, Chinese and John's regular, the Bad Dog Cafe (usual tuna sashimi to start, Sir?). However, after two weeks of it, I would like to eat some home cooked food that is a little more complex than pasta and jarred ragu sauce.

Mike Sweet, a post doc that works with John, and his MPhil student, David, arrived the other day to entertain us (and to do some work). Even though our Suva stuff is mostly packed up (with the UK stuff still somewhere between Newcastle and Fiji), I decided that it would be a good idea to cook dinner. The trip to town to go shopping started in a rare moment of sunshine. Optimistically, we only brought one brolly.

On the menu was lamb chops, vegetables from the market stall and my mother's key lime pie. However, by the time I got out of the supermarket it had begun to sprinkle. The kids were staying in town to go to the movies so I gave them my umbrella. When the taxi stopped at the market stall, it was like standing under a blasting hose pipe. In the five minutes it took me to do the shopping, a small river appeared between me and the taxi and I had to do a running jump to get to the other side.

When I got home I was soaked to my underwear. I dried off, changed my clothes and unpacked my shopping and began to cook. The first challenge was the pie. Digestive biscuits are four times more expensive than other biscuits so I got gingersnaps. They were the hardest damned cookies I ever had the displeasure of crushing by hand (using one of my precious zip lock bags and a wine bottle). The rest of the pie making went smoothly though the pie turned out orange because of the type of limes here - they are more like sour oranges.

Looks like orange, tastes like lime.

As I started prepping the vegetables (mustard greens, tomatoes for salsa, sweetcorn, pumpkin and a white sweet potato) the power went out during a particularly heavy bout of rain. At this point I decided to sit down with my book and a glass of diet Pepsi. I opened the freezer to get out the 2 litre plastic bottle of Pepsi which I had put in ten minutes before and dropped it. It exploded. Really. Two litres of diet Pepsi dripped off of me and walls. It had even blasted up into the cupboards through the slats. My clothes were soaking wet. The bottle lay on the ground looking completely intact but empty - only a smallish crack in the bottom of the bottle gave a hint as to the physics of disbursing a large amount of liquid in very small amount of time over a maximum area.

I had put the Pepsi in the freezer because I can't figure out how to get the ice cubes out of the ice cube tray. This is something that I've had problems with since the demise of the metal ice cube trays with the lever that those of you who where born in the 60s will remember (or those of you that watch Mad Men). An attempt to put ice into my drink the other day resulted in splintered plastic in my drink and a shattered ice cube tray in the bin.

After standing in mute disbelief for a minute or two, I got the mop and cleaned the kitchen. Just as it was getting dark, the lights came back on. I finished cooking dinner which turned out fine bar the corn which was only fit for livestock. As I slipped between the damp sheets I reflected that life isn't too shabby at the moment, even if it is still the dry season.

Accidental Attenborough

We continued to do much of the same at Naigani - snorkeling (Anna saw a shark and didn't jump straight out of the water), kayaking and reading. I was chatting to an Australian woman while she stood in the pool when I saw a large crab scuttling towards her feet. We fished it out with a net and it gave me the evil eye while it scuttled off to hid under some steps.

Thirty minutes later Alex and Anna found him back in the pool. Didn't he understand that chlorinated fresh water isn't good for him? We fished him out again. This time I got video of him racing to his hidey-hole. I didn't mean to take video. I thought I was taking photos. You can hear me being pleasantly surprised at the end of the video at my photographic serendipity. I will upload the it as soon as I get an internet connection that isn't slow as treacle.

If someone can think of a word that describes the way a crab moves that isn't "scuttle", please let me know.

Alex "rescuing" the crab.

The last couple of meals were actually pretty good. There is nothing that will make pork chops and mashed potatoes taste more delicious than being served a plate full of miscellaneous invertebrates and seaweed at the previous meal. I'd like to say we were sad to leave, but I really, really, wanted to wash my hair with copious amounts of shampoo in water that didn't smell like metal. The crab was happily ensconced in the pool's filter when we left.

We're back in wet, rainy Suva. The air is permeated with moisture - any bit of paper hangs limply in your hand. Anna's brilliant school results, which when they arrived in the post in the UK were on a lovey crisp sheet of A4 paper, has now acquired the texture of good quality toilet roll. Fortunately the school accepted it for the educational tender that it is. She is going to start school on 8th October, joining the year that she's already left in England, so that she can make friends and get a better idea about which subjects to take next school year (Jan 2013).

The students all wear bula shirts and both the boys and girls wear skirts (though the boys' are known as sulus). Shoes are optional. Rather than a bell announcing the end of periods, a loud tribal drum sounds. Roti is on the lunch menu. I'm jealous. When (if) I get a job there is no way it's going to be that cool.

Paradise with dirty hair

When we were getting the Hagg Bank house ready for renters, I had a quiet mantra, which went something like this: "painting the bathroom is worth one massage" or "painting the woodwork in the bedroom is worth one night in a resort".  Anna spent endless hours researching resorts, but in the end we opted to spend our first short break in a place recommended to us by one of John's colleagues.

Naigaini Island Resort has mixed reviews on Trip Advisor, so we trawled through them and armed ourselves with snacks to counter the negative food reviews and lowered expectations in regards to all other aspects of resort life. John got left behind to attend a graduation ceremony and yet another university dinner.

Earlier that day when we went to Anna's school for her exams, we happened to get into a taxi with backseat seatbelts - hallelujah! After ascertaining that the driver didn't drive like a madman, I engaged him to take us on the 1-1/2 hour trip up the coast to Natovi Landing.

Our little boat's departure was delayed in the chaos of loading buses and heavy trucks onto the Ovalau ferry, which had arrived late. It gave Anna a chance to make friends with a older local lady, who lives in Lavuka, the old Fijian capital on Ovalau. It's amazing what you learn making small talk. The black and white striped sea snakes around here are still revered as gods by some locals, the new electronic voter registration system has been an abject failure and Naigani is owned by a "very bad man", a politician who has feathered his nest with public money. She said the word politician while writing a big question mark in the air.

Naigani resort is about location, location, location. On this island there is one resort and one village. You have to wade to the shore from the boat. Our bure (the local word for bungalow) is right on the beach and next to the pool. After dropping our bags off, we went for a short walk along the gorgeous beach, then headed for the bar, where Anna & I ordered "something pink" while Alex ordered a delicious Fiji Gold beer to drink while the sun went down.

Alex regards Anna's pink drink with disdain.

The snorkeling here is some of the best (and easiest) in Fiji. You roll out of bed, walk down to the beach, swim out about 20 meters and there appears enormous patches of beautiful coral in crystal clear water. We kayaked over to the next bay which has a lovely small sandy beach. Anna was very excited about seeing Nemos that haven't been lost. John saw a black-tipped reef shark which he says was only 2 foot long, but I suspect could have been bigger. No need to put the children off going in the water.

The resort itself is a little careworn. The taps all drip, the white towels are clean, but stained. And there is no shampoo. And we didn't bring any. And they don't sell it in the shop. I had a massage (sore shoulder due to kayaking in rough seas) and it included a head massage. I didn't realise that he was massaging coconut oil into my hair. Fortunately we did manage to beg a small bottle off some departing guests so I was able to use a tiny amount of shampoo to try to cut through the three days of grease, salt and added coconut oil. My hair still looks like I've been wearing a hat and I can make it take on all sorts of styles, none of which are attractive.

John did come for 24 hours. Poor man had a big gash on his face due to an accident during the graduation ceremony when the person in front of him's mortarboard flew off in a gust of wind and hit him squarely beneath the eye. He had to give a televised talk this morning and he looks like he's been beaten up.

Saturday night the resort had a lovo, which is when they cook everything in a pit. It was a very strange meal. The chicken was good, but then there was a loaf of sea cucumber and coconut, sea grapes which are little stalks of seaweed with little bladders on them filled with seawater, a salad that appeared to be made of out of grass and a dessert that looked like it was the product of a heavy cold. It got to the point that I could not try another new dish, and I'm an adventurous eater. Since then the food has been delicious, particularly the homemade coconut buns at breakfast.

We're leaving tomorrow morning. We packed up the house before we left with Mela coming in today to finish up. However, I just got a text from John saying that we aren't moving into the new house until next week. It could be worse. Waiter, bring me another Fiji Gold!

Peri peri chicken for the soul

Anna & John at the Chinese restaurant that's not the dodgy one.

On Wednesday it rained. And we figured out that we'd done pretty much everything that is worth doing in Suva. This combination was not encouraging for either me or Anna. Thursday morning it was still raining and Alex (bless him) came up with idea of going to the Fiji Museum in town. This was met by a narrow range of enthusiasm, from lukewarm to none. Then he remembered that there is a Nando's in town. Suddenly it felt like Christmas! For those of you that don't know it, Nando's is a chain of restaurants that serves grilled chicken and is populated mostly by teenagers. A good deal of Bythell pocket money has been pumped into Nando's in Newcastle over the years.

And what do you know? Nando's is even more delicious in Suva (if you ask me). And while we were tucking into our medium spiced peri peri chicken the sun came out and we decided that rather than go to the museum, we'd go to the market to buy our lovely housekeeper, Mela, a Fijian broom and then go swimming at the USP pool. Our hearts were gladdened by a combination of spicy poultry and sunshine.

Friday morning Anna had to sit English and maths exams at her new school. Poor thing, I thought it was just to make sure that she could speak English and that she could add and subtract, but it was more serious than that and she hasn't been to school for almost three months so she's forgotten everything that she ever learned. Nearly. She goes back next week for her interview to decide when to start and what classes to take. The head of the senior school wanted to engage me in helping to make decisions about Anna's education, but I declined. I wouldn't want to butt in and ruin it now.

A delightful lack of purpose

Monday John went to work and I didn't. That has not happened for a long, long time. Since 1999 to be precise. I'd like to say that I felt a deep-seated lack of purpose, but I didn't. I just poured myself another cup of coffee and plopped myself down on the sofa to read my book.

(This photo is from Sunday - Alex kayaking on the Coral Coast).

Around lunchtime we set out on our first adventure without John. We caught a taxi and went to Colo-I-Suva, which is a small rainforest reserve near the city. The taxi driver drove straight past the large signs ("Welcome to Colo-I-Suva!"). I thought that he must know another way, but Anna is smarter than me (and less trusting) so eventually he turned around and took us back to where we were supposed to go. Taxi drivers here evidently do not have "the knowledge" like their London counterparts. A little worrying if I'm going to be the one telling them where to go. Fortunately the island is fairly small and round.

We paid our entrance fee (£1 in total, for all three of us) and after a brief hike though jungle we arrived at some swimming holes which were part of a waterfall system. In my head these were blue and glistening in dappled sunlight. In fact, they were tinged red with mud and it was drizzling. However the water felt freezing cold so it was refreshing.

The jungle here appears to be devoid of animal life. There are no native mammals except fruit bats. Introduced mongoose and hunting have devastated the bird and snake population, so it felt like the only danger on our hike was from the possibility of slipping and twisting an ankle rather than being stung, bitten or eaten.

A little further on our walk, we came across an impossibly placed rope swing. The kind the makes a mother's heart stop and has her mutter aloud "no effing way". As Alex and Anna contemplated the possibility of flinging themselves off of a rock into the deep pool below, a group of young Fijian men demonstrated their rope swing prowess. One, in particular, would jump, swing out, wait until the rope was just at the turn to travel back, then let go and gracefully bend his body forward to dive into the water. His big grin when he surfaced showed that he was showing off in the nicest possible way.

He asked Alex if he wanted a turn and Alex bravely threw himself off a lower rock. Anna was keen to have a go, but it was clear from the way they all politely ignored her that she wasn't invited to play in a deep-rooted, cultural, sort of way. Interestingly, I felt no irritation or indignation, just an sense of gratefulness to the generations of progressive women and men that have meant that this sort of thing is rare in the other places I have lived.

Pliz buckle up

When John came home at the end of July, I asked him to describe what Fiji was like. He had two answers for me. The first was that he went to work so he had no idea what it would be like for me during my days lounging around the house. The second was that it was an impossible place to describe.

After five days here I concur (about the second answer - I definitely have not been lounging - well not that much anyway). So rather than describe the place, I will relate what I see and experience. Maybe at the end I will have some coherent way of describing it, but I suspect not.

The first thing we did after dropping off our bags was was to walk to the Southern Cross restaurant on campus, where they serve great Chinese food from behind a counter cafeteria style. A small plate is enormous and costs approximately £2.30. We then walked over to Cost you Less (otherwise known as Cost you More) which is like Costco, but one that you would visit in a slightly weird dream. John kept exclaiming about high expensive everything was ("£12 for a beach towel! Highway robbery!") and I kept having to remind him that the last time he did any shopping for himself was around 1985 and prices have gone up since then. £12 for a nice beach towel is a bargain.

As everyone was flopped after this excursion, John and I walked over to a pizza place and ordered two medium pizzas. We had considered ordering a large, but then saw that you had to turn the box sideways to get it through the door of the restaurant. (Did I warn you that this blog will have a lot of food-related discussion?) The pizzas looked great but the "ham and pineapple" turned out to be "ground spam and pineapple" and the "pepperoni" was something I'd never seen the likes of before and hope to never again.

The next day John to us into town where we went to a real mall. Yes, I am happy to report that there are shops here where you can buy things. Everything, it appears, except fresh milk. Man, I am going to miss fresh milk in my coffee. Anna was visibly relieved. Alex, Anna and John all bought bula shirts (Hawaiian shirts to you) and then we all had to rest poolside at the Holiday Inn while having our lunch.

On Sunday, it was overcast and the wind, which had been blowing hard since our arrival, showed no sign of abating. So we piled into a bone-clattering taxi and drove for almost two hours due east, out of the island's rain shadow, to the Warwick Resort, where the sun was shining but the wind was still blowing with an exfoliating freshness, for a day of R&R on the beach. The food was pretty dreadful, but the snorkeling was good and we got to mess about in kayaks for a bit. I spent a lot of time on a sun lounger reading my book. Lovely.

Despite the command "pliz buckle up" (or similar) on the taxis' dashboards, I'm afraid that backseat seatbelts here are something that obviously slither down the backseats never to be seen again. The taxi ride home took longer as the top speed of the taxi up hills was about 5mph. That's okay, I didn't want him to go any faster anyway.