 Thursday, November 3 (Day 64) Mango Bay – Suva – Navoti Landing - Levuka Cash is king but with an absence of ATMs I’ve been maxing the debit card in Fiji. I’ve subsequently now got to face today’s bill for six nights’ accommodation, restaurant meals, an international phone call, internet and – worst dread of all – my six night bar tab. I guess I’ve covered about 30 quid in cash over this past week but I do pause before I look at my invoice fearing the worst: My final bill for this wonderful week spent in paradise at Mango Bay comes to a grand total of just 313 Fijian Dollars. Even making allowances for the low currency value of the Pathetic Pound, my bill for all of the above comes in at just 110 pounds – around 20 quid per day full board, alcohol and a few extras. Apparently, as I stayed a fifth night I got the sixth night free (the same deal as when you stay for a third night). I bloody love this place. I say my goodbyes to the staff and those few friends that still remain, struggling to leave the front gate and get a lift down to the main road in search of Suva-bound buses. But once I’m a couple of kilometres away from Mango Bay, passing attractive Fijian villages and the wind rushing against my face inside the van, a great sense of freedom consumes me. It is good to be back on the road. It was definitely time to leave. It is two hours (3 quid) or so to the Fijian capital, Suva, described to me by Scunny Mark as ‘Coventry by the sea with palm trees’. Mark’s description filled me with dread but upon arriving in Suva I feel taken in by the vibe, the people, even the low key bustle. There’s just time for a quick wander around and an Indian curry at a little place in the food court. This is the best curry I have had in a couple of years. Two quid gets me a deliciously spicy eggplant, potato and chickpea curry, two roti, rice, dhal, 2 samosas and a calming mug of masala tea. It does though rather bring out the inner sweat and I’m relieved to dive into the Patterson’s Shipping office to resuscitate in their ice cold air con while my bus and ferry tickets to Lomaiviti Island are organised for me.  Once out of Suva, eastern and north eastern Viti Levu feels and looks completely different from the Fiji I have so far encountered. There isn’t a single sign of development; not a single holiday resort out on this side of the main island. I just can’t get over how many different kinds of birds there are swooping around, and the omnipresent canopy of red flowers that are currently blooming above around half of the region’s trees give this rural part of Fiji a real sense of natural perfection.  We pick up a group of 32 Fijians en route to the ferry crossing at Natovi Landing. One of their number, a very smartly dressed gentleman who’s probably got about five years on me, tells me they have an uncle’s funeral to attend in one of the villages near Levuka. Out of respect, the whole of the family on Viti Levu have upped sticks and left for Lomaiviti for three days.  The one hour crossing takes us to Lomaiviti, where the first sight that greets us is the rusting carcass of an abandoned fishing vessel, run aground close to the landing. From here it is a 45 minute bus journey around the unsealed tracks of this; well I will describe it thus: bonkers little island. Poison ivy seems to slowly be engulfing the whole place. This tiny island is about as untouched as you will find anywhere with habitation on this increasingly overpopulated world. Wild rivers cut through small plantations; bizarrely shaped mountains soaring into the heavens and thick mangroves marking the point at which land and sea meet.  Levuka is unreal. It is a Wild West town but the atmosphere is one of peaceful serenity. Most of this dates to the 1880s and is as authentic a place as I’ve seen anywhere in this regard. Original shop fronts hark back to the nineteenth century when the British administered this country from the peaceful solitude of this small island outpost. If you ever wanted an authentic looking film set for a cowboy movie, this most certainly is your place. I book into the Royal Hotel, the oldest hotel in Fiji, which dates back to 1860. I am astounded by this place. Of all of the world’s still existing colonial hotels, and I’m thinking of the likes of Raffles in Singapore, and the colonial gems in Yangon, Burma and Baalbek, Lebanon, this time trap of a place is certainly amongst the most authentic I’ve come across on my travels. There’s an original pool hall, a wonderfully atmospheric bar and dining area full of original furniture and fittings, and a creaking wooden staircase leads to my bedroom, which although not exactly luxurious, exudes history and character. I feel like laughing aloud when the hotel manager tells me it is going to cost me just 25 Fijian Dollars (9 pathetic pounds) to stay here for the night.  Prince Charles apparently stayed just down the road from here when he handed over Fiji from the British in 1970 and it became an independent country. Close by there is also a rather sinister looking Masonic Lodge(1875), which was set ablaze during the 2000 coup when local Methodists claimed the Masons were working with the devil. Fair play to the local Levukans. I suspect there are plenty of Masons who are in league with Satan or at the very least the fascist Neo-liberals. Better off without that particular secretive society plotting, rolling up their trouser legs and God knows what else behind closed doors in the middle of your community. The walls of the building remain as does the ever sinister Masons’ symbol above the entrance.  Time trap Levuka’s main street is a collection of wooden storefronts, ageing pool halls, cosy restaurants, dilapidated churches and boisterous bars. The Morris Hedstrom trading store dates back to 1868, the gorgeous Sacred Heart Church, framed by the soaring mountain peaks behind it, was built in 1858, and the tiny original white wooden police station also harks back to 1874. Strolling around this Wild West street, being greeted with Bula by every person I meet, and observing the yachts moored offshore bobbing up and down on the crystal clear waters, leaves me with goose bumps and muttering to myself Amazing, Amazing.  Another wonderful curry, this time at Whale’s Tale, where I’m the only diner, I return to the hotel and enjoy a rum and coke with the hotel’s only two other guests, an Australian couple in their fifties who base themselves in Tasmania but increasingly call Fiji home. They adore this country (and I don’t blame them) and are thinking about making a permanent move here. As we pause to take a sip from our various brews, I listen to the grandfather clock tick tocking, the floorboards creaking and briefly slip into a fantasy involving me sitting here in a tweed jacket, discussing the latest matters of Empire and drinking a pot of tea with my fellow British naval officers. The year is 1888. 
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 Wednesday, November 2 (Day 63)
Mango Bay, Fiji This website isn’t achieving what I wanted it to do. Yes, I have good numbers - on average more than 100 unique viewers a day, peaking at 400, and that’s without currently using Facebook, email or link exchanges to drive traffic. In Africa the project was a great success although had Bjorn and his missus not gone all my precious at the end of it in South Africa, it would have and (should have) achieved a lot, lot more. I never really spoke about that at the time. I just didn’t want to rock the boat. The Shirt 2010 was Bjorn’s project, after all, so it didn’t seem right for me to kick up a fuss at the time about some of the bad decisions and personal conflicts that occurred right at the very end of our time in Africa. If I do manage to put a book together about these past 18 months’ adventures, as I hope I will, then I will go into all that then. Furthermore, in Argentina I struggled to find the projects that I’d wanted so much to champion and, when I finally did track two down, it was during my last two days, with an unsuccessful visit to the slums and an eye opening and humbling night on the streets with the homeless in Buenos Aires. More info will follow about the Buenos Aires street project after I get home. In NZ I didn’t see any projects and I feel bad for that, but the truth is since my personal life took a turn in July I’ve had to concentrate on fixing myself before I can start worrying about others again. I realise today that the healing process is kicking in. I feel happy; very happy in fact. Sorry for not championing the grass roots projects as I’d intended but for the moment at least I feel very good about myself for the first time in four months. If you do get the chance, please take a look at the Projects We Like page, where you can click on the pictures and be redirected to the relevant websites. More projects will be added to this page when I get back to Europe and I am extremely keen that this website develops further to help promote the work of grass roots organisations which do wonderful work helping those less fortunate than ourselves. Yes, you’ve guessed it. I’m still here. In Mango Bay. It’s like the Hotel California – you can check in but you can never leave. I sort of feel bad that I didn’t leave with Ruby, the British Iranian girl who is off to Caqalai Island to hook up with some National Geographic people who are making a film about venomous sea snakes. I was encouraging her to go on a two day road trip with me to see the snakes and to spend a night at the former colonial capital, Levuka. She was umming and erring - understandably with jet lag and enjoying the Mango Bay vibe - but today she suddenly said let’s go and I just felt too much in bits from last night’s back-of-the-net evening to pack my stuff and leave here in the space of half an hour. I should have gone. Sorry Ruby. Not that my day is bad: Kayaking on the lagoon with my French friend, reading A Clockwork Orange under the shade of a coconut tree, another kava ceremony, sunbathing factor 40 stylee, and falling asleep in a hammock under a palm tree. It is time to leave this place now. This particular party and my personal Fijian rehab are over. My new year began yesterday. It’s time to get back on the road.  Monday, October 31 (Day 61) Mango Bay, Fiji The Solomon Islands, Tuvalu, New Caledonia, Vanuatu, Wallis & Futuna, Tokelau, American Samoa, Niue, Tonga, Cook Islands, French Polynesia, Easter Island…last night’s conversation with Scunny Mark has got me thinking and projecting ideas on to the infinite possibilities white board of life. The South Pacific has always been the most far away, unlikely-to-ever visit place on my personal world map of travel but, now I am here in Fiji, the world, as I visualise it, has shrunk once again. Why not do a trip that starts in say Papua New Guinea or the eastern islands of Indonesia or the Philippines and then moves eastwards, taking in all of the Pacific island states listed above? I have never in my entire life heard of anybody who has set out on a full tour of the Pacific, but now I am here I realise it is well doable. Where the flights don’t really connect up there are twice monthly container ship routes and you could always jump on a yacht and offer your services (God knows what services I could offer) in return for passage to the next island state. You could do it in three or four months, I reckon. Surely this could rate as one of the world’s lesser travelled great adventure routes? A 2013 South Pacific extravaganza anybody? Funny I should be building castles in the sky when I am struggling to move my arse from Mango Bay, two hours up the road to Suva. A hangover and a free overnight stay were my excuse yesterday. God knows what my excuse is today. Feeling far too chilled to put a rucksack on my shoulder maybe. Actually, the main reason I was planning to stay in Suva was so I could catch what I assumed would be an early morning bus from there to my next port-of-call, Levuka. It turns out I can leave here after breakfast tomorrow and catch a connecting bus from the big smoke (Suva is the biggest city in the Pacific) to Levuka at 1.30, so I’m laughing. “So, you got lucky last night! Did you bang her in the dorm?” Tashkent asks me. I knew it. I knew they were all going to think we’d hooked up. I’m not sure what Jenna would think if she knew that half of the punters at Mango Bay think she had banana flambé for dessert last night. There’s a new arrival. A British-Iranian girl has just flown in from LA on her way back to Australia. She’s got real class. This place seems to be sucking in some nice women. Maybe that’s another of my excuses for not leaving gorgeous Mango Bay. You know that you truly have too much time on your hands and life is easy when the highlight of your day is international crab racing. Yes, I celebrate this Halloween by buying the temporary rights to a Fijian crab (going by the name of ‘Rose’) and racing it against nine other crabs. The race is at 9pm local time so that’s 9am in the UK. I am thinking, as a crowd of us are gathered in a circle with beer bottles and cocktails in hand, cheering and shouting at the crabs, that some of my mates have just arrived at the office in London, Leicester and Birmingham. What would they think if they knew that at the same time I’m on the other side of the planet, half cut, racing and betting on crabs, which have got numbers painted on their shells? Or have they all long since given up on my ability to live what might be considered a normal, balanced life? I’m happy to announce that my luck is obviously changing as Rose romps home and I win the contents of the kitty, thus making this another free night at Mango Bay. You’ve got to feel sorry for the Australian crab, Skippy, though. As the master of ceremonies picks up the winning crab and takes her to the winners rostrum, he manages to step on the Australian crab and send him to an untimely death. RIP Skippy.  |
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