Wednesday 28th April 2010, 8.20pm, Nomads Skylodge Resort, Nadi - Vitu Levu
One is Welsh, one is Northern Irish, ten are English.
I went to school with seven of them, University with three of them, and picked up the other two out of sheer good fortune.
Ten are female, two are male.
One lives in Cardiff, one lives in Bristol, one lives in Leeds, three live in Canterbury, three live in Essex, three live in London.
Three are vegetarian.
Five appreciate a cigarette.
Three have their own blogs.
Amongst them there are two actors, a journalist, two teachers, a script writer, a PA and a broker.
Four have tattoos.
Five are dog people, three are cat people, four have time for neither although one of these loves guinea pigs.
Eleven are older than me, one is younger, by exactly a month.
One grew up in Hong Kong and loves Audrey Hepburn and sushi, Bob Dylan and champagne. She's going to be famous.
One is a domestic goddess with eyes bigger than Bambi's, a phobia of melted ice cream, and owns two Chanel handbags and a heart of solid gold.
One went back to Uni to study what she loves and wears vamp lipstick, a vintage dress and a dirty grin to every lecture.
One is my Valentine's Day cohort, smarter and more modest than all the men who dominate her profession, and ran the London Marathon last weekend like she was jogging in the park.
One loves superheros and comic books, taught me about wine in a box, living on cobbled streets and being true to yourself even when it's really hard to be.
One could tell you an interesting story about chilli peppers, has the messiest bedroom, the most filthy, infectious giggle and the most unwaveringly loyal heart ever.
One always knew what she wanted so went out and did it, she'll juggle career and family with deft ease, and is only an engagement ring short of the jackpot.
One has gorgeous red hair, fiery passion to match it, childlike optimism, a belief in God, and the power to make you believe in God when you witness her faith.
One is a person you'd always want at your party, the wittiest, most stylish, most eloquent, devastatingly funny, charismatic man in every room he disco dances in to.
One owns most of my childhood memories and used to be taller than everyone else, now it's just her beauty and humility that make others small in comparison.
One will make her home your home, feed you red wine and cheese and Sex and the City and Margaret Atwood, cooks a mean gnocchi and is going to travel the globe and make people the planet over beg her not to leave them.
One lives by cocktails, Marlboro Lights, hot climates and excuses to buy a new pair of shoes, she makes me laugh like no one else can, and could teach the world what it means to be a best friend through the hard times and the good.
Some have quick tempers, others mellow dispositions. Some go to the movies, some read books, some buy Vogue. Some like Electro, some sing along to Mariah Carey. Some wear leather, others wear floral. Some have married parents, others have separated families, all have vices, all have passions, all have dreams, all of them are different. Twelve wonderfully different people with one thing in common. That thing is me.
A few days ago I sent an e-mail to these twelve people because I needed them. I am fortunate enough to have many people I count as friends, but these twelve are more than that. They are my confidantes and companions, the ones who know everything, the people I would raise hell to protect, the ones that I'd gladly take bullets for. I was worried and upset about something, I yearned for the advice and support of my best friends, I told them what has been troubling me and asked simply, 'help me'. Sometimes we need to ask for help, we need to let those closest to us know that we are struggling, and in my case, my S.O.S. was swiftly answered... ask and you shall receive. I have been overwhelmed by them, as I always am. In the space of 48 hours my inbox was inundated with messages of warmth, wisdom, shared sadness, priceless advice, coping mechanisms, and unending compassion, kindness and understanding. I have laughed and cried and nodded in agreement with the receipt of each of their e-mails.
All offered completely contrasting opinions and suggestions, each of their answers reflecting their own experiences and beliefs; it would be impossible for me to put each of their plans into action because they all think and see things so divergently from one another. Do you know what though? This does not matter in the slightest. It turns out that I didn't need practical solutions or 10 point plans or structured guidelines for coping, all I needed, was to hear their voices and to know that they are there for me. It wasn't the answers that I craved, it was the sentiment behind them. What has occurred to me now is that it doesn't matter an iota how conflicting their ideas are, just as their differences in backgrounds, tastes, ambitions and character have never mattered. What matters is the one thing all these e-mails had in common, each and every last one of them was motivated out of consideration for me, out of their shared desire to help me find happiness; my best interests fixed firmly on all of their hearts.
As for the reason I initially sent out my distress signal, well this now seems far less important and troublesome than it did to me a couple of days ago, it has been clouded into insignificance by the storm of their love. What trial or tribulation can hurt me now? What can damage me when I have in written proof that twelve of the best human beings I ever met would drop everything to sit at their keyboards and help me when I called for it from half way around the world. I am not upset anymore, the panic has passed, what on earth have I got to complain about? I know how lucky I am that these people would bless me with their friendship, I also know that plenty of people in this world would be impossibly grateful for just one of these relationships. My problem has been split 13 times, and in it's separately carved fractions now feels a perfectly light load to bare.
This might just be the only way I know to get to happiness, finding people who will carry you on their shoulders over the ditches and trenches on the road towards it. Twelve people. One thing in common: I would never have made it this far down the road without them.
Wednesday 12 May 2010
For My Companion
Wednesday 28th April 2010, 4.20pm, Nomads Skylodge Resort, Nadi - Vitu Levu
Dear Ella,
No one has ever cried that much because they were being separated from me, no one has ever been so upset to see me go, I have never had the privilege of seeing someone's feelings for me so viscerally displayed in tears at our parting, and it made me feel indescribably loved. I cried too, until you were a dot on the horizon standing in the surf waving your arms, a little blonde dot in the distance, I sat on the boat that carried me away from you and wept! I cried because this is the end of a precious time, because I will miss having you there to tell all my thoughts to, because I am scared to go on without my companion.
Thank you for coming with me. In the past 5 months I have seen and done more of importance than I had in the 23 years that preceded this, and I am so grateful that I had someone there to see it with me. We have had the best times of our lives in each others' company, and without you to share it with me I may have found it difficult in years to come to look back on all this and really believe it ever happened. But I know that every time we see each other at home, every time we will drink tea in each others' houses (where I will probably want coffee and you will serve it out of Royal Doulton), go shopping on Portobello Market (when I will get frustrated by your indecision over two identical t-shirts and pick for you), quaff wine on a Friday night after work (you can tell me about famous celebrities you've dressed and I'll show you the new bruises that teenagers with bad attitudes have given me), when we wander through London streets that have recently seemed so far away, when I look at you I will be instantly transported back to this magical time in our lives. Your face, your voice, your laugh, will take me back to the beaches of Thailand, the jungles of Vietnam, the nightlife in Bali, the mountains of New Zealand, the sunsets of Fiji - you will bring these much missed places back to my doorstep. Less than a year ago we were strangers, but because of everything that has happened to us together I know we will always be a part of each others' lives, no one else could understand as fully as you will.
I'm sorry if sometimes I was a difficult person to travel with, too grumpy when sleep deprived, too angry at men, too silent when suffering, too fearful or sarcastic or cynical. Without you there I would have been a much worse version of myself, but your excitement and eagerness, your warmth, consideration, care and encouragement helped me to be more like you; someone who never took one day we had for granted. I will endeavour to carry this with me, taking all I have learnt from your bravery and exuberance on the road ahead in the hope that, like you, I will never forget how lucky we have been.
Have the best time in America and Canada, see everything, do everything, only take registered taxis, wear your sunscreen, don't wash your whites with your red dress, find someone to play with your hair, teach everyone about the Tune scale, don't worry about money - your creativity and your ambition will make you more soon enough. Show everyone Stateside why it is that I miss you so much already. And Ells, don't fret about the future, it is in bigger hands than your dainty ring-laden fingers. You know that I believe in things happening for a reason, that if we truly try to do the right thing, life will provide us with tools and means to do this. When I made that scary decision back in September to finally bite the bullet and buy a plane ticket, I was introduced to you just 8 days later. I cannot shrug my shoulders and call it a coincidence. What have you to worry about, when it has already been so mercifully proven to us that the future has a way of taking care of itself?! All that you want to happen will happen, in ways you may not even expect.
On the day you came away you sent me a text message from the airport, do you remember? It said,
'I'm so scared and excited. Eating dinner alone, need someone to hug but can't speak to anyone because we just cry! I can't wait to see you, we are going to have a mammoth adventure.'
Yes we did my darling. Thank you, a million times thank you for being at my side through the most mammoth of adventures, it would have been so much smaller without you.
All my love always,
Grace x.
Dear Ella,
No one has ever cried that much because they were being separated from me, no one has ever been so upset to see me go, I have never had the privilege of seeing someone's feelings for me so viscerally displayed in tears at our parting, and it made me feel indescribably loved. I cried too, until you were a dot on the horizon standing in the surf waving your arms, a little blonde dot in the distance, I sat on the boat that carried me away from you and wept! I cried because this is the end of a precious time, because I will miss having you there to tell all my thoughts to, because I am scared to go on without my companion.
Thank you for coming with me. In the past 5 months I have seen and done more of importance than I had in the 23 years that preceded this, and I am so grateful that I had someone there to see it with me. We have had the best times of our lives in each others' company, and without you to share it with me I may have found it difficult in years to come to look back on all this and really believe it ever happened. But I know that every time we see each other at home, every time we will drink tea in each others' houses (where I will probably want coffee and you will serve it out of Royal Doulton), go shopping on Portobello Market (when I will get frustrated by your indecision over two identical t-shirts and pick for you), quaff wine on a Friday night after work (you can tell me about famous celebrities you've dressed and I'll show you the new bruises that teenagers with bad attitudes have given me), when we wander through London streets that have recently seemed so far away, when I look at you I will be instantly transported back to this magical time in our lives. Your face, your voice, your laugh, will take me back to the beaches of Thailand, the jungles of Vietnam, the nightlife in Bali, the mountains of New Zealand, the sunsets of Fiji - you will bring these much missed places back to my doorstep. Less than a year ago we were strangers, but because of everything that has happened to us together I know we will always be a part of each others' lives, no one else could understand as fully as you will.
I'm sorry if sometimes I was a difficult person to travel with, too grumpy when sleep deprived, too angry at men, too silent when suffering, too fearful or sarcastic or cynical. Without you there I would have been a much worse version of myself, but your excitement and eagerness, your warmth, consideration, care and encouragement helped me to be more like you; someone who never took one day we had for granted. I will endeavour to carry this with me, taking all I have learnt from your bravery and exuberance on the road ahead in the hope that, like you, I will never forget how lucky we have been.
Have the best time in America and Canada, see everything, do everything, only take registered taxis, wear your sunscreen, don't wash your whites with your red dress, find someone to play with your hair, teach everyone about the Tune scale, don't worry about money - your creativity and your ambition will make you more soon enough. Show everyone Stateside why it is that I miss you so much already. And Ells, don't fret about the future, it is in bigger hands than your dainty ring-laden fingers. You know that I believe in things happening for a reason, that if we truly try to do the right thing, life will provide us with tools and means to do this. When I made that scary decision back in September to finally bite the bullet and buy a plane ticket, I was introduced to you just 8 days later. I cannot shrug my shoulders and call it a coincidence. What have you to worry about, when it has already been so mercifully proven to us that the future has a way of taking care of itself?! All that you want to happen will happen, in ways you may not even expect.
On the day you came away you sent me a text message from the airport, do you remember? It said,
'I'm so scared and excited. Eating dinner alone, need someone to hug but can't speak to anyone because we just cry! I can't wait to see you, we are going to have a mammoth adventure.'
Yes we did my darling. Thank you, a million times thank you for being at my side through the most mammoth of adventures, it would have been so much smaller without you.
All my love always,
Grace x.
Tuesday 11 May 2010
A Triumphant Loser
Wednesday 27th April 2010, 2am, Ratu Kini Resort - Mana Island
Since the beginning of our travels together, Ella and I have been teaching and learning a multitude of different drinking games to and from other travellers. For the uninitiated I will explain the premise of a drinking game. Usually involving a deck of cards, or a list of improvised rules, a party trick or a series of bets and dares, a drinking game involves a group of people sat around a table playing competitively in one forum or another to get each other drunk as quickly as possible. It's like sport, but fun, and bad for your liver.
In these games, drinking a large swig of the alcoholic beverage in front of you is always considered punishment, or forfeit, for losing at the chosen game. My favourites to play are ones that rely on dynamic vocabulary, quick wit or good short term memory - I never get drunk when the stakes depend on these variables. Card games, number problems, coordination, fast reaction time, physical challenges however, in games of this ilk it's pretty certain that I'll end up trollied. There is one particular drinking game that I detest, my ineptitude for it meaning that I will always be the first in the group to be slurring my words and slipping my elbow off the edge of the table. An empty glass is placed in the middle of the competitors, each takes it in turns to hold a coin flat between thumb and forefinger and then bounce this coin on it's flat surface off of the table, and hopefully, into the glass.
Ella is phenomenally fantastic at this game; hence why we seem to play it quite a lot. She just has an unnerving knack for it, she can do it time and time again, I've seen her get coins in Pringle boxes before - that's practically Olympian. I, well, I'm shit at it aren't I. Every time I bounce the coin and it flies off the table, or hits someone in the eye, or refuses to bounce at all and just falls flat on the surface like a dead weight, I have to take another gulp of my chosen tipple, and so inevitably my aptitude for this sporting event becomes more and more impeded by inebriation.
A wonderful thing happened tonight. On this Tuesday evening/Wednesday morning, this last night that Ella and I will spend together, I, Grace 'Not Very Good At Things' Gillman, for the first time in 5 months of playing this damn game, got the coin in the glass. It was a very special moment. Our other players had all been briefed about my coin game failings, and along with Ella and I were all vocal in their moral support, willing me to concentrate and achieve this feat which has for so long eluded me. After seeing off two rum and cokes and a glass of white wine that tasted like mouldy vinegar, I finally bounced that coin where it was meant to go, and the celebration at the table was raucous.
We all leapt in the air and cheered, clapped, high-fived and hugged each other like I'd just won the last lap of a team relay at the Commonwealth Games. Everyone was delighted for me that I'd managed to mark the occasion of mine and Ella's "Last Supper" by finally conquering this stupid game. After the jubilation died down other people chose to sacrifice their turns for me, because they said they wanted to see the same look of shock and joy on my face once more. If only there had been a camera in attendance, I probably looked like I'd just won the lottery. But I couldn't replicate it, it was obviously a one-off achievement. No matter, my instant return to Coin Game sloppiness did not darken that moment for me, hearing that 10 cents piece clink in the glass was made all the more sweeter by 5 months of losing. Being good at everything, effortlessly, all the time, well that's no fun, you'd come to expect so much of yourself! Being truly terrible at things, and overcoming them through camaraderie and perseverance, hearing the crowd cheer the underdog, now that's what triumph feels like.
Since the beginning of our travels together, Ella and I have been teaching and learning a multitude of different drinking games to and from other travellers. For the uninitiated I will explain the premise of a drinking game. Usually involving a deck of cards, or a list of improvised rules, a party trick or a series of bets and dares, a drinking game involves a group of people sat around a table playing competitively in one forum or another to get each other drunk as quickly as possible. It's like sport, but fun, and bad for your liver.
In these games, drinking a large swig of the alcoholic beverage in front of you is always considered punishment, or forfeit, for losing at the chosen game. My favourites to play are ones that rely on dynamic vocabulary, quick wit or good short term memory - I never get drunk when the stakes depend on these variables. Card games, number problems, coordination, fast reaction time, physical challenges however, in games of this ilk it's pretty certain that I'll end up trollied. There is one particular drinking game that I detest, my ineptitude for it meaning that I will always be the first in the group to be slurring my words and slipping my elbow off the edge of the table. An empty glass is placed in the middle of the competitors, each takes it in turns to hold a coin flat between thumb and forefinger and then bounce this coin on it's flat surface off of the table, and hopefully, into the glass.
Ella is phenomenally fantastic at this game; hence why we seem to play it quite a lot. She just has an unnerving knack for it, she can do it time and time again, I've seen her get coins in Pringle boxes before - that's practically Olympian. I, well, I'm shit at it aren't I. Every time I bounce the coin and it flies off the table, or hits someone in the eye, or refuses to bounce at all and just falls flat on the surface like a dead weight, I have to take another gulp of my chosen tipple, and so inevitably my aptitude for this sporting event becomes more and more impeded by inebriation.
A wonderful thing happened tonight. On this Tuesday evening/Wednesday morning, this last night that Ella and I will spend together, I, Grace 'Not Very Good At Things' Gillman, for the first time in 5 months of playing this damn game, got the coin in the glass. It was a very special moment. Our other players had all been briefed about my coin game failings, and along with Ella and I were all vocal in their moral support, willing me to concentrate and achieve this feat which has for so long eluded me. After seeing off two rum and cokes and a glass of white wine that tasted like mouldy vinegar, I finally bounced that coin where it was meant to go, and the celebration at the table was raucous.
We all leapt in the air and cheered, clapped, high-fived and hugged each other like I'd just won the last lap of a team relay at the Commonwealth Games. Everyone was delighted for me that I'd managed to mark the occasion of mine and Ella's "Last Supper" by finally conquering this stupid game. After the jubilation died down other people chose to sacrifice their turns for me, because they said they wanted to see the same look of shock and joy on my face once more. If only there had been a camera in attendance, I probably looked like I'd just won the lottery. But I couldn't replicate it, it was obviously a one-off achievement. No matter, my instant return to Coin Game sloppiness did not darken that moment for me, hearing that 10 cents piece clink in the glass was made all the more sweeter by 5 months of losing. Being good at everything, effortlessly, all the time, well that's no fun, you'd come to expect so much of yourself! Being truly terrible at things, and overcoming them through camaraderie and perseverance, hearing the crowd cheer the underdog, now that's what triumph feels like.
Passing of the Storm
Monday 26th April 2010, 7.05am, Ratu Kini Resort - Mana Island
Without really knowing it, I think I've known all week that something has been brewing. Days of light rain and my tempestuous mood reached a climax yesterday afternoon, and were then broken overnight by a real tempest, a real storm to wash away the anxiety of the past 7 days. At around 9pm yesterday evening the heavens opened and the rain finally did what it has been threatening to do, it came down in heavy, violent droves, flooding Mana Island in water knee deep. We were caught in a cyclone.
Palm trees have been uprooted, thatched roofs damaged, beach debris washed ashore, winds raged around our straw hut at speeds of 100 kilometres an hour, the night sky was burnt and scarred by a kaleidoscope of lightning, and I have never heard thunder so deep, so deafeningly bellowing in my whole life. The volume of it reverberated through my ear drums, vibrating my insides like a nauseating base line played on stadium speakers. It sounded like God's wrath, it was terrifying. Throughout the early hours of this morning I sat awake in bed listening to the elements cause havoc outside my rattling shutters, wetness dripping on my feet from the buckling leaf ceiling pregnant with rain water, puddles coming in under the door, the wind shaking the foundations of our hut, and convinced that we would be lucky to make it through the night unharmed.
We don't have to deal with these kind of weather conditions in Britain, or at least not in London. We live in the blissful ignorance of a temperate climate, where we never get a truly brilliant baking summer, but where in return for this, we neither have to endure the kind of natural disasters that weather can inflict so brutally on other parts of the world. I have always enjoyed storms at home, but this is because I live in a sturdy semi-detached brick house with a well insulated roof, double glazing, thick carpets and central heating. It is a rare pleasure to be cocooned in warmth and safety and smugness in my cosy box of a bedroom at home whilst the rain pours down on hard, cold streets outside my lead panelled window. Being in the middle of a tropical cyclone, in a hut made from straw and bamboo, surrounded by the sound of trees crashing to the forest floor just yards from your bed, well this is a markedly less pleasurable storm experience, take it from me temperate climate dwellers.
It might be an over exaggeration to say that I feared for my life, but there definitely was one self indulgent moment of morbidness where I remember sulking at how pathetic a gravestone epitaph 'she was killed by rain and wind' would be. Far more desirable to be 'eaten by lion' or 'shot in bank heist' or 'drowned saving family of 5 from strong currents'. Death by rain and wind, well that's about as impressive a final curtain as being run over by a milk float. I may have allowed my imagination to run away with me a little, but this is what I do, and I needed some distraction from the thunder.
The cyclone came and went, and I am happy to say that no one need draft my obituary just yet. The elements have purged themselves over the islands of Fiji, and where yesterday there were acres of grey cloud, there is now a clear blue sky and fierce, scorching sunshine. The islanders are cleaning up the mess and mopping the flood water from their homes, and I, like the weather am in the lightest mood I have been in all week. The clouds were sat even heavier on my heart than they were on the sky, but for now at least, it seems this storm has passed.
Without really knowing it, I think I've known all week that something has been brewing. Days of light rain and my tempestuous mood reached a climax yesterday afternoon, and were then broken overnight by a real tempest, a real storm to wash away the anxiety of the past 7 days. At around 9pm yesterday evening the heavens opened and the rain finally did what it has been threatening to do, it came down in heavy, violent droves, flooding Mana Island in water knee deep. We were caught in a cyclone.
Palm trees have been uprooted, thatched roofs damaged, beach debris washed ashore, winds raged around our straw hut at speeds of 100 kilometres an hour, the night sky was burnt and scarred by a kaleidoscope of lightning, and I have never heard thunder so deep, so deafeningly bellowing in my whole life. The volume of it reverberated through my ear drums, vibrating my insides like a nauseating base line played on stadium speakers. It sounded like God's wrath, it was terrifying. Throughout the early hours of this morning I sat awake in bed listening to the elements cause havoc outside my rattling shutters, wetness dripping on my feet from the buckling leaf ceiling pregnant with rain water, puddles coming in under the door, the wind shaking the foundations of our hut, and convinced that we would be lucky to make it through the night unharmed.
We don't have to deal with these kind of weather conditions in Britain, or at least not in London. We live in the blissful ignorance of a temperate climate, where we never get a truly brilliant baking summer, but where in return for this, we neither have to endure the kind of natural disasters that weather can inflict so brutally on other parts of the world. I have always enjoyed storms at home, but this is because I live in a sturdy semi-detached brick house with a well insulated roof, double glazing, thick carpets and central heating. It is a rare pleasure to be cocooned in warmth and safety and smugness in my cosy box of a bedroom at home whilst the rain pours down on hard, cold streets outside my lead panelled window. Being in the middle of a tropical cyclone, in a hut made from straw and bamboo, surrounded by the sound of trees crashing to the forest floor just yards from your bed, well this is a markedly less pleasurable storm experience, take it from me temperate climate dwellers.
It might be an over exaggeration to say that I feared for my life, but there definitely was one self indulgent moment of morbidness where I remember sulking at how pathetic a gravestone epitaph 'she was killed by rain and wind' would be. Far more desirable to be 'eaten by lion' or 'shot in bank heist' or 'drowned saving family of 5 from strong currents'. Death by rain and wind, well that's about as impressive a final curtain as being run over by a milk float. I may have allowed my imagination to run away with me a little, but this is what I do, and I needed some distraction from the thunder.
The cyclone came and went, and I am happy to say that no one need draft my obituary just yet. The elements have purged themselves over the islands of Fiji, and where yesterday there were acres of grey cloud, there is now a clear blue sky and fierce, scorching sunshine. The islanders are cleaning up the mess and mopping the flood water from their homes, and I, like the weather am in the lightest mood I have been in all week. The clouds were sat even heavier on my heart than they were on the sky, but for now at least, it seems this storm has passed.
Saturday 8 May 2010
Bad Mood Shadow
Sunday 25th April 2010, 5.20pm, Ratu Kini Resort - Mana Island
I really don't know what's been wrong with me the past week or so, I've been suffering from an inexcusably and unjustifiably bad mood that has been lurking in my shadow and jumping on my back once every few days, placing it's head on top of mine and supplanting every miserable thought or acid tongued retort from its own miserable cadaver into mine. There's absolutely no explanation for it and I feel like a horrible person who doesn't deserve to be here when all I can seem to do is get angry at unavoidable inconveniences. I am on Mana Island, staying in a resort where I am fed 3 times a day, where I have a comfy, clean bed, where there are 4 resident dogs and 20 other friendly backpackers for me to play with, where no one expects anything from me other than that I will spend my days sunbathing, reading and swimming. And yet.
Take this example. There is a saying commonly, and in my frustrated mind, too overly used on the islands, that is "Fiji Time". Fiji Time is the Fijians way of saying relax, don't stress, we'll get round to it eventually, sure we said dinner would be at 7, but we're working on Fiji Time, so 7 doesn't really mean anything. Everyone else seems to have wound down their internal clocks to quite successfully synchronise with Fiji Time, no one expects anything to happen until it has actually happened, everyone is just so chilled out man. Do you want to know how well I am adjusting to Fiji Time? How peaceful and easy-going I am? I think that "Fiji Time" is just an unimaginative excuse for being god damn lazy and incompetent, a way of revoking your word and never fulfilling anything you promise at the time when you say it will be done. It is a manipulation of semantics to aid procrastinators, dawdlers, idlers and the unpunctual.
The way I can prove this is by exemplifying the fact that on the islands, the only time "Fiji Time" is not a valid pardon for something being late, is when it's time to check out.
"Oh sorry I'm handing back my key 15 minutes late, you know how it is, ha ha, overslept, still on Fiji Time!"
"That will be 15 dollars late key charge."
It is the most hypocritical, one-sided and infuriatingly illogical argument I have ever heard! Just writing about it now is making my blood boil, I shouldn't be this stressed!
I got annoyed again this morning when I realised that Notebook Number Three had come to an end, leaving me without means to continue writing. This would not do. So I wandered down to the "shop" behind reception and asked if they sold notepads. I was presented with a spiral bound jotter no bigger than my palm. I asked if they had any scrap paper I could use, thinking I'd just make do whilst marooned from the mainland, and the woman behind the desk, sat with a messy pile of paper strands in front of her, sighed and said "No, I don't think so." Helpful. So I have been forced to buy the notebook that is too small for a rodent to keep an accurate diary in, and evidently, yes, it's pissing me off.
I know I sound stupid. Things not happening on time and lack of desirable A5 paper on a tropical island paradise... I shouldn't be even nearly as irate as I am. Maybe these things are just cursory distraction techniques from something bigger that is looming, a few clouds in the sky, Fiji Time, uncooked potatoes at dinner, small paper and slightly expensive vodka would never usually be the kind of things to have the power to make me so tense, so on edge, so snappy. The bad mood just keeps jumping on my back, holding on around my neck and refusing to let go. But I don't think it's anything to do with beautiful Fiji. It is a manifestation of fear of something bigger, a much bigger bad mood, a much bigger continent indeed.
I really don't know what's been wrong with me the past week or so, I've been suffering from an inexcusably and unjustifiably bad mood that has been lurking in my shadow and jumping on my back once every few days, placing it's head on top of mine and supplanting every miserable thought or acid tongued retort from its own miserable cadaver into mine. There's absolutely no explanation for it and I feel like a horrible person who doesn't deserve to be here when all I can seem to do is get angry at unavoidable inconveniences. I am on Mana Island, staying in a resort where I am fed 3 times a day, where I have a comfy, clean bed, where there are 4 resident dogs and 20 other friendly backpackers for me to play with, where no one expects anything from me other than that I will spend my days sunbathing, reading and swimming. And yet.
Take this example. There is a saying commonly, and in my frustrated mind, too overly used on the islands, that is "Fiji Time". Fiji Time is the Fijians way of saying relax, don't stress, we'll get round to it eventually, sure we said dinner would be at 7, but we're working on Fiji Time, so 7 doesn't really mean anything. Everyone else seems to have wound down their internal clocks to quite successfully synchronise with Fiji Time, no one expects anything to happen until it has actually happened, everyone is just so chilled out man. Do you want to know how well I am adjusting to Fiji Time? How peaceful and easy-going I am? I think that "Fiji Time" is just an unimaginative excuse for being god damn lazy and incompetent, a way of revoking your word and never fulfilling anything you promise at the time when you say it will be done. It is a manipulation of semantics to aid procrastinators, dawdlers, idlers and the unpunctual.
The way I can prove this is by exemplifying the fact that on the islands, the only time "Fiji Time" is not a valid pardon for something being late, is when it's time to check out.
"Oh sorry I'm handing back my key 15 minutes late, you know how it is, ha ha, overslept, still on Fiji Time!"
"That will be 15 dollars late key charge."
It is the most hypocritical, one-sided and infuriatingly illogical argument I have ever heard! Just writing about it now is making my blood boil, I shouldn't be this stressed!
I got annoyed again this morning when I realised that Notebook Number Three had come to an end, leaving me without means to continue writing. This would not do. So I wandered down to the "shop" behind reception and asked if they sold notepads. I was presented with a spiral bound jotter no bigger than my palm. I asked if they had any scrap paper I could use, thinking I'd just make do whilst marooned from the mainland, and the woman behind the desk, sat with a messy pile of paper strands in front of her, sighed and said "No, I don't think so." Helpful. So I have been forced to buy the notebook that is too small for a rodent to keep an accurate diary in, and evidently, yes, it's pissing me off.
I know I sound stupid. Things not happening on time and lack of desirable A5 paper on a tropical island paradise... I shouldn't be even nearly as irate as I am. Maybe these things are just cursory distraction techniques from something bigger that is looming, a few clouds in the sky, Fiji Time, uncooked potatoes at dinner, small paper and slightly expensive vodka would never usually be the kind of things to have the power to make me so tense, so on edge, so snappy. The bad mood just keeps jumping on my back, holding on around my neck and refusing to let go. But I don't think it's anything to do with beautiful Fiji. It is a manifestation of fear of something bigger, a much bigger bad mood, a much bigger continent indeed.
The Reoccuring Dream
Saturday 24th April 2010, 6.45am, Ratu Kini Resort - Mana Island
I have been having the same dream, continuously, for the past 5 months. I would have told you about it sooner but as often happens with our dreams they pale and vanish in consciousness, they flee from that cerebral cortex which governs daytime thinking. Unless we make concerted effort to hold on to them by chasing their tails through our memory, they are lost in a No Man's Land of unexplained sleeper's thought. This one always sticks with me, but it is only today, on rising and reaching for my notebook as early as I have, that I finally remember to tell you about it.
The premise, the feeling and the ending of the dream are always exactly the same, a few variables change here and there, but every time I have it I wake up not knowing where I am. It starts with me at home, and by home I mean various locations around London; sometimes I am at work, sometimes at my parents' house, sometimes at my local pub. The conversation begins, the scene is set, the exposition run through: I have just returned from travelling, I am being welcomed back for the first time by family and friends and colleagues. I have come back, but only temporarily, just to see everyone for one weekend, a fleeting visit before I go back to whatever country I was in at the time - when I was in Cambodia I knew this in the dream, and knew I had to get back to Vietnam, when I was in Bali this is what I told people in my dream, and knew I had to fly back to New Zealand, and so on and so forth.
I spend time catching up with everyone and begin to get back in to my old routines, and then the dream switches. I have been at home too long, what am I doing here? I'm going to miss my next flight, it's going to cost me a fortune in plane tickets to get back to where I was and carry on. The dream always ends with me walking over to the noticeboard in our kitchen and pointing at the calendar, then I say, "I'm not going to be able to get back in time." I wake up in a state of panic, at first not realising that I was dreaming, believing I'm at home. Then it takes me a few seconds to process the room around me and work out what country, what island, what dormitory I'm in. The relief is always immense when I realise I'm still away and that I haven't missed any flights, every time I have the dream it makes me thankful all over again to be travelling.
I must have had that same dream about 20 times now, and I doubt I've seen the last of it yet. I'm no practised dream interpreter, but I don't think it takes any great philosopher to decipher what it means. It means I'm where I'm meant to be, doing what makes me happy, in places that I can't bare to leave, on a trip that I don't want to end. But it also means that if I could fly home for the weekend and see you all without jeopardising the future of my travels, I'd be there in a shot. If it's any consolation my dears, I'm visiting you all in my dreams.
I have been having the same dream, continuously, for the past 5 months. I would have told you about it sooner but as often happens with our dreams they pale and vanish in consciousness, they flee from that cerebral cortex which governs daytime thinking. Unless we make concerted effort to hold on to them by chasing their tails through our memory, they are lost in a No Man's Land of unexplained sleeper's thought. This one always sticks with me, but it is only today, on rising and reaching for my notebook as early as I have, that I finally remember to tell you about it.
The premise, the feeling and the ending of the dream are always exactly the same, a few variables change here and there, but every time I have it I wake up not knowing where I am. It starts with me at home, and by home I mean various locations around London; sometimes I am at work, sometimes at my parents' house, sometimes at my local pub. The conversation begins, the scene is set, the exposition run through: I have just returned from travelling, I am being welcomed back for the first time by family and friends and colleagues. I have come back, but only temporarily, just to see everyone for one weekend, a fleeting visit before I go back to whatever country I was in at the time - when I was in Cambodia I knew this in the dream, and knew I had to get back to Vietnam, when I was in Bali this is what I told people in my dream, and knew I had to fly back to New Zealand, and so on and so forth.
I spend time catching up with everyone and begin to get back in to my old routines, and then the dream switches. I have been at home too long, what am I doing here? I'm going to miss my next flight, it's going to cost me a fortune in plane tickets to get back to where I was and carry on. The dream always ends with me walking over to the noticeboard in our kitchen and pointing at the calendar, then I say, "I'm not going to be able to get back in time." I wake up in a state of panic, at first not realising that I was dreaming, believing I'm at home. Then it takes me a few seconds to process the room around me and work out what country, what island, what dormitory I'm in. The relief is always immense when I realise I'm still away and that I haven't missed any flights, every time I have the dream it makes me thankful all over again to be travelling.
I must have had that same dream about 20 times now, and I doubt I've seen the last of it yet. I'm no practised dream interpreter, but I don't think it takes any great philosopher to decipher what it means. It means I'm where I'm meant to be, doing what makes me happy, in places that I can't bare to leave, on a trip that I don't want to end. But it also means that if I could fly home for the weekend and see you all without jeopardising the future of my travels, I'd be there in a shot. If it's any consolation my dears, I'm visiting you all in my dreams.
I Know This Much Is True
Thursday 22nd March 2010, 3.20pm, Beachcomber Island
I'm aware that I do go on about books that I've read on my travels quite frequently. But to be honest, you've got off remarkably lightly, I'm usually much more prolific in my book chat than this. Just ask any of my close friends and I'm sure they'll happily attest to the fact that I become reasonably boring in my constant desire to discuss and dissect and debate novels I've read. I could talk about books I love forever, and probably will. Maybe I should see if anyone wants to pay me to write about them; Grace Gillman, Literary Critic, that would be jolly nice. Then I could spend a stupid amount of time reading and no one would be able to tell me I was wasting my time, because it would be my JOB to be boring about books! I should have thought of this sooner!
I become distracted. I'm writing today to tell you about the book I have just finished, Wally Lamb's, 'I Know This Much Is True'. I came across it in entirely serendipitous circumstances, having read myself out of mine and Ella's reading material (although I point blank refused to touch her copy of 'Rubbish Boyfriends' by Jessie Jones, it offends me that money is spent printing that garbage, I'm just surprised it didn't have illustrations) I was on the way to the book shop and exchange at the Beach House, dreading what manner of Jilly Cooper, Sophie Kinsella, Marian Keyes and Jodi Picoult dross I was going to find there.
Walking through the bar I caught sight of a lone abandoned book on a shelf by the snooker table. There was no library label or name in the front cover, and it had been sellotaped down the spine to hold the two separated halves together, I like a well-loved book. I was initially perturbed by the presence of an Oprah's Book Club sticker on the front, guessing that this might mean it was some kind of self-help preaching manifesto, but then I remember that Oprah likes Toni Morrison, so she can't be all bad. Turning it in my hands to read the blurb I was instead met by an onslaught of critics' opinions that said things like;
'Every now and then a book comes along that sets new standards for writers and readers alike. Wally Lamb's latest novel is stunning - and even that might be an understatement... this is a masterpiece.'
'A rich literary tapestry that is an affirmation of life.'
'Twice as thoughtful and twice as heart-wrenching as most published this year... impossible to forget.'
'A late twentieth century Les Miserables.'
'The only thing bad about Wally Lamb's new novel is that it's too good.'
'There are no superlatives impressive enough to describe this... the saga of the century.'
Well then. All this praise just left me mightily confused as to how the hell I'd never heard of this author or this book? Why don't I pay more attention to the New York Times Bestseller List? Why am I not a literary critic too? Why haven't I written my book yet instead of this silly blog? Why don't I watch Oprah? I become distracted again. You can probably guess what I'm going to say about Lamb's novel can't you, it's not going to be 'yeah, weren't bad' is it. Without wanting to hammer home the message too rigidly after all those critics' plaudits, I will tell you simply first, that yes, it is an astounding feat of literary genius, it is 900 pages of storytelling perfection that make you wish it had been double, triple it's already magnitudinous length. I've just finished it and I am fighting the urge to go back to page 1 and start all over again.
It is a fully developed exploration of contemporary suffering and redemption, it is inspiring, disturbingly comic, devastating, symmetrically crafted, a soulful consideration of all that hurts and heals us. Right at the centre of this book is an epic modern day survivor, a man who is flawed and selfish and angry and guilty of betrayal, and yet you love him all the more for his very human failings, you so desperately want him to have the happy ending he deserves. He should go down, in my opinion, as one of the greatest literary examples of troubled human life and heroism ever written.
I couldn't possibly tell you what it's about, because it is about everything. But if you intend to read it I would warn you to prepare yourself for a heavy study in tragedy. I was shedding a quiet tear to myself at one particularly emotive part and Ella asked me why it was sad? "Schizophrenia, cot death, self mutilation, child abuse, domestic violence, oppression of women, racism, divorce, depression, rape, social injustice, death, betrayal, humiliation, unrequited love", I answered.
"I don't think I want to read that book", she said.
But she'll be missing out if she doesn't. I have read a lot of books in my 23 years, and I really do mean A LOT of books, possibly hundreds. This, this book of Wally Lamb's, is one of the best I have ever found, and if you're any kind of smart cookie you'll take my advice and find it for yourself, I know that much is true.
I'm aware that I do go on about books that I've read on my travels quite frequently. But to be honest, you've got off remarkably lightly, I'm usually much more prolific in my book chat than this. Just ask any of my close friends and I'm sure they'll happily attest to the fact that I become reasonably boring in my constant desire to discuss and dissect and debate novels I've read. I could talk about books I love forever, and probably will. Maybe I should see if anyone wants to pay me to write about them; Grace Gillman, Literary Critic, that would be jolly nice. Then I could spend a stupid amount of time reading and no one would be able to tell me I was wasting my time, because it would be my JOB to be boring about books! I should have thought of this sooner!
I become distracted. I'm writing today to tell you about the book I have just finished, Wally Lamb's, 'I Know This Much Is True'. I came across it in entirely serendipitous circumstances, having read myself out of mine and Ella's reading material (although I point blank refused to touch her copy of 'Rubbish Boyfriends' by Jessie Jones, it offends me that money is spent printing that garbage, I'm just surprised it didn't have illustrations) I was on the way to the book shop and exchange at the Beach House, dreading what manner of Jilly Cooper, Sophie Kinsella, Marian Keyes and Jodi Picoult dross I was going to find there.
Walking through the bar I caught sight of a lone abandoned book on a shelf by the snooker table. There was no library label or name in the front cover, and it had been sellotaped down the spine to hold the two separated halves together, I like a well-loved book. I was initially perturbed by the presence of an Oprah's Book Club sticker on the front, guessing that this might mean it was some kind of self-help preaching manifesto, but then I remember that Oprah likes Toni Morrison, so she can't be all bad. Turning it in my hands to read the blurb I was instead met by an onslaught of critics' opinions that said things like;
'Every now and then a book comes along that sets new standards for writers and readers alike. Wally Lamb's latest novel is stunning - and even that might be an understatement... this is a masterpiece.'
'A rich literary tapestry that is an affirmation of life.'
'Twice as thoughtful and twice as heart-wrenching as most published this year... impossible to forget.'
'A late twentieth century Les Miserables.'
'The only thing bad about Wally Lamb's new novel is that it's too good.'
'There are no superlatives impressive enough to describe this... the saga of the century.'
Well then. All this praise just left me mightily confused as to how the hell I'd never heard of this author or this book? Why don't I pay more attention to the New York Times Bestseller List? Why am I not a literary critic too? Why haven't I written my book yet instead of this silly blog? Why don't I watch Oprah? I become distracted again. You can probably guess what I'm going to say about Lamb's novel can't you, it's not going to be 'yeah, weren't bad' is it. Without wanting to hammer home the message too rigidly after all those critics' plaudits, I will tell you simply first, that yes, it is an astounding feat of literary genius, it is 900 pages of storytelling perfection that make you wish it had been double, triple it's already magnitudinous length. I've just finished it and I am fighting the urge to go back to page 1 and start all over again.
It is a fully developed exploration of contemporary suffering and redemption, it is inspiring, disturbingly comic, devastating, symmetrically crafted, a soulful consideration of all that hurts and heals us. Right at the centre of this book is an epic modern day survivor, a man who is flawed and selfish and angry and guilty of betrayal, and yet you love him all the more for his very human failings, you so desperately want him to have the happy ending he deserves. He should go down, in my opinion, as one of the greatest literary examples of troubled human life and heroism ever written.
I couldn't possibly tell you what it's about, because it is about everything. But if you intend to read it I would warn you to prepare yourself for a heavy study in tragedy. I was shedding a quiet tear to myself at one particularly emotive part and Ella asked me why it was sad? "Schizophrenia, cot death, self mutilation, child abuse, domestic violence, oppression of women, racism, divorce, depression, rape, social injustice, death, betrayal, humiliation, unrequited love", I answered.
"I don't think I want to read that book", she said.
But she'll be missing out if she doesn't. I have read a lot of books in my 23 years, and I really do mean A LOT of books, possibly hundreds. This, this book of Wally Lamb's, is one of the best I have ever found, and if you're any kind of smart cookie you'll take my advice and find it for yourself, I know that much is true.
Thursday 6 May 2010
A Mouse in the House
Wednesday 21st April 2010, 9.30om, Dormitory Room - Bounty Island
I'm not sleeping in the bed I'm supposed to be sleeping in. That is because my designated bed is a bottom bunk, and that is far too near the mouse for my liking. About an hour ago I came in to our dorm room on Bounty Island to find Ella perched on her top bunk, peering over the edge into the corner of the room.
"Ells, what are you..."
"Ssshh, listen!"
I listened, and I heard it too. The unmistakable sound of scuffling and chewing that only a small rodent can make. I promptly leapt up on to her bed with her and we both sat there in anticipation and quiet anxiety, staring at the bag from which the noise was emanating. I have some previous experience of rodent room occupation having spent a night on Gili Air sleeping in the hammock on the veranda after hearing a family of rats steadily munch their way through the wicker ceiling above my pillow. It was a choice between bad back and 10,000 mosquito bites versus being woken up by rat falling on face, and I took the back ache and the itching like a trooper. The bungalow's resident cat had also joined me for sleep in the hammock, her disinterest in staying inside to hunt was an indication of the size of these killer rats.
I quite like mice though, they're cute little things, but I do not fancy the prospect of one crawling over me in the middle of the night when I'm not expecting it. We sat for some time together on her bed, watching out for any noticeable movement from the hijacked bag and wondering what we were going to do about it. Thankfully, just as our planning stage had reached 'stay here all night and sleep in the same bed without risking the run to the bathroom to brush our teeth', the gallant owner of the occupied backpack, Ruben, came back to the dorm. "Oh thank god!" we cried in unison, and without so much as a hesitated shudder Ruben pulled his bag into the centre of the room, unzipped it, and began to pull things out whilst Ella and I clung to each other and retreated further down the bed.
It didn't take long to find the pesky critter. He'd eaten through half a pack of Super Noodles and a bag of crisps, and had made quite the cosy little nest for himself with Ruben's t-shirts and the lining of the bag, he'd also obviously been very busy marking the backpack as his territory by urinating over everything. He looked quite sweet sitting there gazing up at us with a guilty 'uh-oh, you caught me' face, and I felt silly for having been frightened by such an amiable little animal. Ruben, as you'd expect, was less enthused by the mouse's "cuteness". On his discovery and exposure of culpability, the mouse (who we shall call Brian), deserted ship and darted into a dark corner of the room. Ruben is sorting out which of his clothes haven't become mouse bed linen, Ella and I are currently sat on two top bunk beds trying to work out if Brian is still with us. We suspect he is.
All will go quiet for a little while and then you'll see him poke his tiny head out from behind a bag or a bed, checking if the coast is clear for him to return home to Ruben's bag/nest. We have moved all of our bags off of ground level and are trying to be brave; we've agreed to take the 'at least it's not a giant cockroach' approach to the matter. Despite the initial fright, Brian is alright in my books, and I don't mind him sticking around as long as he stays on the floor. Hey, I've shared bedrooms with much more contemptible creatures than him.
I'm not sleeping in the bed I'm supposed to be sleeping in. That is because my designated bed is a bottom bunk, and that is far too near the mouse for my liking. About an hour ago I came in to our dorm room on Bounty Island to find Ella perched on her top bunk, peering over the edge into the corner of the room.
"Ells, what are you..."
"Ssshh, listen!"
I listened, and I heard it too. The unmistakable sound of scuffling and chewing that only a small rodent can make. I promptly leapt up on to her bed with her and we both sat there in anticipation and quiet anxiety, staring at the bag from which the noise was emanating. I have some previous experience of rodent room occupation having spent a night on Gili Air sleeping in the hammock on the veranda after hearing a family of rats steadily munch their way through the wicker ceiling above my pillow. It was a choice between bad back and 10,000 mosquito bites versus being woken up by rat falling on face, and I took the back ache and the itching like a trooper. The bungalow's resident cat had also joined me for sleep in the hammock, her disinterest in staying inside to hunt was an indication of the size of these killer rats.
I quite like mice though, they're cute little things, but I do not fancy the prospect of one crawling over me in the middle of the night when I'm not expecting it. We sat for some time together on her bed, watching out for any noticeable movement from the hijacked bag and wondering what we were going to do about it. Thankfully, just as our planning stage had reached 'stay here all night and sleep in the same bed without risking the run to the bathroom to brush our teeth', the gallant owner of the occupied backpack, Ruben, came back to the dorm. "Oh thank god!" we cried in unison, and without so much as a hesitated shudder Ruben pulled his bag into the centre of the room, unzipped it, and began to pull things out whilst Ella and I clung to each other and retreated further down the bed.
It didn't take long to find the pesky critter. He'd eaten through half a pack of Super Noodles and a bag of crisps, and had made quite the cosy little nest for himself with Ruben's t-shirts and the lining of the bag, he'd also obviously been very busy marking the backpack as his territory by urinating over everything. He looked quite sweet sitting there gazing up at us with a guilty 'uh-oh, you caught me' face, and I felt silly for having been frightened by such an amiable little animal. Ruben, as you'd expect, was less enthused by the mouse's "cuteness". On his discovery and exposure of culpability, the mouse (who we shall call Brian), deserted ship and darted into a dark corner of the room. Ruben is sorting out which of his clothes haven't become mouse bed linen, Ella and I are currently sat on two top bunk beds trying to work out if Brian is still with us. We suspect he is.
All will go quiet for a little while and then you'll see him poke his tiny head out from behind a bag or a bed, checking if the coast is clear for him to return home to Ruben's bag/nest. We have moved all of our bags off of ground level and are trying to be brave; we've agreed to take the 'at least it's not a giant cockroach' approach to the matter. Despite the initial fright, Brian is alright in my books, and I don't mind him sticking around as long as he stays on the floor. Hey, I've shared bedrooms with much more contemptible creatures than him.
In Michael Buble's Wisdom
Tuesday 20th April 2010, 4.10pm, Nadi Bay Resort, Nadi - Vitu Levu
We dragged ourselves away from Robinson Crusoe Island and the family of staff there who adopted us on Saturday morning. We left in sombre silence, it was amazing how quickly the people there made us feel at home, and we were incredibly sad to leave those who had been so caring of us. But as much as we realise that the islands are all "much of a muchness", we do want to experience the atmosphere in other beach resorts around the Pacific. The staff all came to the shore and waved us off by playing a guitar and singing a traditional Fijian farewell ballad. At the end of the song they shouted in unison their favourite Robinson Crusoe Catchphrase, "I see you baby!" to which Ella and I dutifully responded from the boat with the answer they wanted "Love you long time!". Sure it doesn't make much sense, but they seem to love saying it, and these are people who deserved our thanks.
From there we went to the Beach House on the Coral Coast from where I last wrote to you, where I was struck down with temporary melancholy, where it rained for two days. Now we are in Nadi again, on the West Coast of the main island of Vitu Levu for one night before we head back to the Mamanuca group tomorrow morning. Yes, it would probably be easier for us to choose one place and stick with it for 2 weeks, but we are too practised at being wandering, restless nomads now, my companion and I, and curiosity always gets the better of these cats. This cat doesn't have much to tell you today, I could complain some more about how much my stiff neck hurts (I am self diagnosing inflamed muscles, trapped nerves and a need for anti-inflammatory tablets) but that would be dull, and you've probably had enough of my griping this week already.
I write to tell you a brief anecdote which my Mother probably will not thank me for sharing with you. I was cheering myself up this morning by using my favourite toy, Skype, to give her a call. As much as she misses just having me around, I know that another thing she's really missing is hearing about all my friends and what they've been up to. After filling her in on my news (lots of neck related complaining) she first asks after Ella, and then plies me with questions such as "Have you spoken to Emma recently?", "Has Rowena had her baby yet?", "How are the Hannahs doing?", "Heard from Asha and Laura?", "What are the Canterbury lot up to?". She loves to hear all their gossip and goings-on as much as she likes to hear mine I think.
The subject turned to my friends' romantic relationships seeing as many of them have had a change in circumstances recently; the poor woman doesn't get any love based news from her own stalwart singleton first born so I sated her with developments in my friends' love lives instead of my own; missing in absence. When I had finished recalling for her all their up to date exploits as well as mentioning Ella's continuing quest for her Holy Grail (blonde, dread-locked, Swedish, surfer, rich parents with heart conditions), she quietly and tentatively posed the forbidden question, "And you Grace? Have you met anyone special?".
Special. Hmmmm. Tricky one. The short answer is "No". The very long answer is one that I do not wish to go in to, suffice to say that successful trysts generally require both parties involved to think that the other is "special". I gave her an answer somewhere in the middle of these two possible responses that fitted adequately with the New Age feminist anger that she rolls her eyes and tuts at. "No Mum. There is no one special. Men are not special creatures, and the sooner they realise how un-special they are the sooner I might be slightly more interested in spending time with one." Ahhh, Germaine Greer has raised me well.
Then my Mother said something marvellous. Or rather, sang something. Calling on the wise words of middle aged women's favourite and nice clean boy crooner Michael Buble, she warbled down the phone to me "I just haven't met you yet!". I could hear my sister laughing away in the background with me, apparently she was treated to exactly the same rendition on the day she broke up with her ex-boyfriend. What a wonderfully funny woman she is. Mum, unfazed by our laughter, then reiterated her point by adding "I think of you girls every time I hear that song". Thanks Mum. I won't run away to the nunnery just yet then.
We dragged ourselves away from Robinson Crusoe Island and the family of staff there who adopted us on Saturday morning. We left in sombre silence, it was amazing how quickly the people there made us feel at home, and we were incredibly sad to leave those who had been so caring of us. But as much as we realise that the islands are all "much of a muchness", we do want to experience the atmosphere in other beach resorts around the Pacific. The staff all came to the shore and waved us off by playing a guitar and singing a traditional Fijian farewell ballad. At the end of the song they shouted in unison their favourite Robinson Crusoe Catchphrase, "I see you baby!" to which Ella and I dutifully responded from the boat with the answer they wanted "Love you long time!". Sure it doesn't make much sense, but they seem to love saying it, and these are people who deserved our thanks.
From there we went to the Beach House on the Coral Coast from where I last wrote to you, where I was struck down with temporary melancholy, where it rained for two days. Now we are in Nadi again, on the West Coast of the main island of Vitu Levu for one night before we head back to the Mamanuca group tomorrow morning. Yes, it would probably be easier for us to choose one place and stick with it for 2 weeks, but we are too practised at being wandering, restless nomads now, my companion and I, and curiosity always gets the better of these cats. This cat doesn't have much to tell you today, I could complain some more about how much my stiff neck hurts (I am self diagnosing inflamed muscles, trapped nerves and a need for anti-inflammatory tablets) but that would be dull, and you've probably had enough of my griping this week already.
I write to tell you a brief anecdote which my Mother probably will not thank me for sharing with you. I was cheering myself up this morning by using my favourite toy, Skype, to give her a call. As much as she misses just having me around, I know that another thing she's really missing is hearing about all my friends and what they've been up to. After filling her in on my news (lots of neck related complaining) she first asks after Ella, and then plies me with questions such as "Have you spoken to Emma recently?", "Has Rowena had her baby yet?", "How are the Hannahs doing?", "Heard from Asha and Laura?", "What are the Canterbury lot up to?". She loves to hear all their gossip and goings-on as much as she likes to hear mine I think.
The subject turned to my friends' romantic relationships seeing as many of them have had a change in circumstances recently; the poor woman doesn't get any love based news from her own stalwart singleton first born so I sated her with developments in my friends' love lives instead of my own; missing in absence. When I had finished recalling for her all their up to date exploits as well as mentioning Ella's continuing quest for her Holy Grail (blonde, dread-locked, Swedish, surfer, rich parents with heart conditions), she quietly and tentatively posed the forbidden question, "And you Grace? Have you met anyone special?".
Special. Hmmmm. Tricky one. The short answer is "No". The very long answer is one that I do not wish to go in to, suffice to say that successful trysts generally require both parties involved to think that the other is "special". I gave her an answer somewhere in the middle of these two possible responses that fitted adequately with the New Age feminist anger that she rolls her eyes and tuts at. "No Mum. There is no one special. Men are not special creatures, and the sooner they realise how un-special they are the sooner I might be slightly more interested in spending time with one." Ahhh, Germaine Greer has raised me well.
Then my Mother said something marvellous. Or rather, sang something. Calling on the wise words of middle aged women's favourite and nice clean boy crooner Michael Buble, she warbled down the phone to me "I just haven't met you yet!". I could hear my sister laughing away in the background with me, apparently she was treated to exactly the same rendition on the day she broke up with her ex-boyfriend. What a wonderfully funny woman she is. Mum, unfazed by our laughter, then reiterated her point by adding "I think of you girls every time I hear that song". Thanks Mum. I won't run away to the nunnery just yet then.
Through The Looking Glass
Sunday 18th April 2010, 6.10am, Coral Coast Beach - Vitu Levu
I was caught off guard just now by an overwhelming sense of deja vu. I can't sleep, I've somehow managed to damage my neck or reawaken an old injury in it so that I've been walking around for the last 48 hours as stiff as Frankenstein's monster and in quite a lot of pain. So I instead gave up on finding a comfortable position to lie in and made the 1 minute walk from my bed to the beach.
There's something in the air this morning, a tangible feeling of forthcoming discontent. Writers in the 19th century might have called it a 'sense of foreboding', Ibsen and Strindberg would have played it through the erratic and increasingly hysterical behaviour of a female character, Steven King would be all walks down silent corridors with closed doors, Dickens would have had it in the depths of a snowy and smoggy London night, Steinbeck amongst the suffocating heat and eerie tumbleweeds of the Southern plains, Hardy would have gone to the Moors, in the rain, and a young girl in a white dress would be lost and weather beaten, Shakespeare placed three witches on a hill, prophesying imminent doom around a cauldron. It's a morning like that, a morning with terrible promise, one that imitates how its central character is feeling, and seeing as no one else is here, well then today that must be me.
And then I was hit by deja vu, when I sat down here on an empty stretch of endless sand, the sky grey and violet with the broken newborn sun failing to fill her potential behind thick clouds heaving with the hint of warm rain. The Machiavellian sandflies are silently twitching and darting over my sandy legs, there's a fresh blood spot on my ankle where one of them has bitten in to my goose-bumped flesh. Coconut trees behind me are rustling their palms in the gathering breeze and sound like water falling on timber. A hundred or so metres out to sea, aubergine waves find a surf break that strips their dusty hues like turpentine and sees them crashing towards their death on the shore, newly aquamarine. Broken coral, shell husks and seaweed strands lie scattered around me, discarded and unwanted by the retreating tide, cane toads hide in murky pools from last night's rain, thunder is raising his voice in the distance, he'll be here soon. I am alone in every direction.
I know why I have deja vu, why I feel like some other me in some other dimension has sat here with her pen and paper before me. It's because everything this morning, the landscape, the atmosphere, the weather, the clouds, the emotion, resembles exactly a morning I had back in Koh Phangan in December, the 4th I think it was. I couldn't sleep that morning either, so I took myself melancholic and despondently to the beach and wrote Carry It With You (http://gallivantingandgoodness.blogspot.com/2009/12/carry-it-with-you.html). Everything now feels identical to then. I was dismal on that morning because I'd had to say goodbye to some friends from home who were travelling a few months ahead of me. I had been so looking forward to seeing them for that first week in Thailand that I had neglected to spend any considerable amount of time contemplating the months of travelling that lay stretched out for me behind their farewell. Their departure made me nervous, I missed them too quickly, and the absence of their backpacks slung in the corner of the room saw me fleeing for the beach with my notebook to lament the loss of moments in time that are unimitable.
In some kind of perfect symmetry that life has designed for me, I now sit on sand once more with those same nervous fears crawling along my veins, 2 weeks before I will see those friends again that I waved off in Phangan. Seeing them again will mean that I'm in Australia, and Australia will mean that I have reached the last stage of the 7 month trip that I originally intended. The beginning and the end; I feel like I'm looking back at myself through a mirror.
Australia is the real world, a place where I have to make big decisions about the next year of my life. The happy, nomadic existence I have come to know and love will need to be put on temporary standstill whilst I deliberate whether or not I can afford to miss my flight back to Heathrow in June. And if I do not go to the airport on that day, where will I go instead? I don't know yet if I can make Australia a home, the size of it scares me, the impersonality of such vast and uninhabitable terrain seems isolating, the culture of working and drinking, drinking and working too resemblant of what I ran away from in London, the beaches are beautiful but bettered elsewhere, the cities are vibrant and amenable, but cities are everywhere, and I don't like snakes, or sharks, or spiders that can kill me.
The thing that frightens me the most about any kind of prolonged stay in Australia (because prolonged is what it will have to be if I hope to earn some money there) is that there is nobody in Australia who wants me or needs me, and I am a person who needs and wants to be wanted and needed. I guess we all feel like this to some extent, no one wants to be dispensable or too easily replaced. I can hear my friends and family yelling at their computer screens as they read this, 'Come home then Grace!', but I do not know if I'm ready for that either, I'm terrified that when I return it will feel like I've never been away, that this will all seem like some hazy dream. Maybe I need to keep moving until I find somewhere or someone to whom I feel useful.
Many people thrive on this kind of uncertainty, on the sense of being directionless, but it just makes me feel like I'm wasting time I won't get back, ever panicked and aware of my own infinite mortality! I don't want to know the future, I'm not asking for a crystal ball or a fortune teller or a magazine horoscope, but a little bit of guidance would be nice, a bit of clear sight. It feels like that's what deja vu is for; life repeating moments for us so that we may see the important things more clearly through their reiteration. What does this repetition tell me? That I still get scared by life, that I will run to the beach with my notebook rather than talk about it, that I have tendencies towards loneliness, that I still can't see the path in front of my feet. I've stepped through glass, and am trying not to despair that I look exactly the same, attempting not to align my feelings with the weather, arguing that I am probably not the protagonist of my own unwritten tragic novel!
I need to know that it's alright to be sat alone on the beach at 6 in the morning, missing everything that's gone, in trepidation of what's to come, wondering what on earth I'm doing here, and hoping that someone, anyone, will give me a place and a reason to unpack my bag and feel worthwhile. Hubble, Bubble, Toil and Trouble.
I was caught off guard just now by an overwhelming sense of deja vu. I can't sleep, I've somehow managed to damage my neck or reawaken an old injury in it so that I've been walking around for the last 48 hours as stiff as Frankenstein's monster and in quite a lot of pain. So I instead gave up on finding a comfortable position to lie in and made the 1 minute walk from my bed to the beach.
There's something in the air this morning, a tangible feeling of forthcoming discontent. Writers in the 19th century might have called it a 'sense of foreboding', Ibsen and Strindberg would have played it through the erratic and increasingly hysterical behaviour of a female character, Steven King would be all walks down silent corridors with closed doors, Dickens would have had it in the depths of a snowy and smoggy London night, Steinbeck amongst the suffocating heat and eerie tumbleweeds of the Southern plains, Hardy would have gone to the Moors, in the rain, and a young girl in a white dress would be lost and weather beaten, Shakespeare placed three witches on a hill, prophesying imminent doom around a cauldron. It's a morning like that, a morning with terrible promise, one that imitates how its central character is feeling, and seeing as no one else is here, well then today that must be me.
And then I was hit by deja vu, when I sat down here on an empty stretch of endless sand, the sky grey and violet with the broken newborn sun failing to fill her potential behind thick clouds heaving with the hint of warm rain. The Machiavellian sandflies are silently twitching and darting over my sandy legs, there's a fresh blood spot on my ankle where one of them has bitten in to my goose-bumped flesh. Coconut trees behind me are rustling their palms in the gathering breeze and sound like water falling on timber. A hundred or so metres out to sea, aubergine waves find a surf break that strips their dusty hues like turpentine and sees them crashing towards their death on the shore, newly aquamarine. Broken coral, shell husks and seaweed strands lie scattered around me, discarded and unwanted by the retreating tide, cane toads hide in murky pools from last night's rain, thunder is raising his voice in the distance, he'll be here soon. I am alone in every direction.
I know why I have deja vu, why I feel like some other me in some other dimension has sat here with her pen and paper before me. It's because everything this morning, the landscape, the atmosphere, the weather, the clouds, the emotion, resembles exactly a morning I had back in Koh Phangan in December, the 4th I think it was. I couldn't sleep that morning either, so I took myself melancholic and despondently to the beach and wrote Carry It With You (http://gallivantingandgoodness.blogspot.com/2009/12/carry-it-with-you.html). Everything now feels identical to then. I was dismal on that morning because I'd had to say goodbye to some friends from home who were travelling a few months ahead of me. I had been so looking forward to seeing them for that first week in Thailand that I had neglected to spend any considerable amount of time contemplating the months of travelling that lay stretched out for me behind their farewell. Their departure made me nervous, I missed them too quickly, and the absence of their backpacks slung in the corner of the room saw me fleeing for the beach with my notebook to lament the loss of moments in time that are unimitable.
In some kind of perfect symmetry that life has designed for me, I now sit on sand once more with those same nervous fears crawling along my veins, 2 weeks before I will see those friends again that I waved off in Phangan. Seeing them again will mean that I'm in Australia, and Australia will mean that I have reached the last stage of the 7 month trip that I originally intended. The beginning and the end; I feel like I'm looking back at myself through a mirror.
Australia is the real world, a place where I have to make big decisions about the next year of my life. The happy, nomadic existence I have come to know and love will need to be put on temporary standstill whilst I deliberate whether or not I can afford to miss my flight back to Heathrow in June. And if I do not go to the airport on that day, where will I go instead? I don't know yet if I can make Australia a home, the size of it scares me, the impersonality of such vast and uninhabitable terrain seems isolating, the culture of working and drinking, drinking and working too resemblant of what I ran away from in London, the beaches are beautiful but bettered elsewhere, the cities are vibrant and amenable, but cities are everywhere, and I don't like snakes, or sharks, or spiders that can kill me.
The thing that frightens me the most about any kind of prolonged stay in Australia (because prolonged is what it will have to be if I hope to earn some money there) is that there is nobody in Australia who wants me or needs me, and I am a person who needs and wants to be wanted and needed. I guess we all feel like this to some extent, no one wants to be dispensable or too easily replaced. I can hear my friends and family yelling at their computer screens as they read this, 'Come home then Grace!', but I do not know if I'm ready for that either, I'm terrified that when I return it will feel like I've never been away, that this will all seem like some hazy dream. Maybe I need to keep moving until I find somewhere or someone to whom I feel useful.
Many people thrive on this kind of uncertainty, on the sense of being directionless, but it just makes me feel like I'm wasting time I won't get back, ever panicked and aware of my own infinite mortality! I don't want to know the future, I'm not asking for a crystal ball or a fortune teller or a magazine horoscope, but a little bit of guidance would be nice, a bit of clear sight. It feels like that's what deja vu is for; life repeating moments for us so that we may see the important things more clearly through their reiteration. What does this repetition tell me? That I still get scared by life, that I will run to the beach with my notebook rather than talk about it, that I have tendencies towards loneliness, that I still can't see the path in front of my feet. I've stepped through glass, and am trying not to despair that I look exactly the same, attempting not to align my feelings with the weather, arguing that I am probably not the protagonist of my own unwritten tragic novel!
I need to know that it's alright to be sat alone on the beach at 6 in the morning, missing everything that's gone, in trepidation of what's to come, wondering what on earth I'm doing here, and hoping that someone, anyone, will give me a place and a reason to unpack my bag and feel worthwhile. Hubble, Bubble, Toil and Trouble.
The Misery Guts
Friday 16th April 2010, 11.30am, Robinson Crusoe Island
We're still living on Robinson Crusoe Island, still sunbathing and reading and sleeping like it's going out of fashion. We do go kayaking though, and snorkeling, ahh yes, snorkeling. We went out on the boat yesterday about 20 minutes from the island to some deeper coral reefs and I almost had a heart attack when, peacefully swimming along, a member of our group spotted a couple of rather large reef sharks skimming through the water below us. I believe I have previously mentioned my hatred of these creatures but I don't believe anyone understands quite how much they bother me. On the discovery that I was a mere 4ft above them and in their territory I began to uncontrollably shake and cry, and very nearly vomited. Ella was the most helpful, simply saying, "Keep your head out the water Grace, it's nearly over, I'll tell you when they're gone." Everyone else was quick to try and calm me down by offering platitudes such as "Reef sharks won't hurt you Grace, they're harmless!" and all wore confused expressions that suggested they were frustrated by my overreaction.
This is how I know that people do not understand. The knowing that these sharks weren't about to eat me does not make a blind bit of difference to the fear and physical symptoms of panic I feel upon seeing them. That's the point about phobias, they are not rational reactions, they are visceral manifestations of a feeling we can't control and telling someone who is mortally terrified of sharks to "chill out" whilst she's in the water with them is about as useful as telling someone having an asthma attack to "just breathe". Will the cartoon sharks in Finding Nemo jump out of the TV and bite me? No. But can I bring myself to come out from behind a pillow and watch that bit of the film? No I cannot. Do I know that there are no sharks in the swimming pool at my gym? Yes I do. But if I think about them when swimming does my heart beat out of my chest and my breathing become difficult? Yes it does. Do I realise that my bed is not floating on water and if my arm is hanging over the side there won't be any sharks underneath me to come and chew it off? Yes, I realise this. But will I still pull that arm straight back under the duvet to safety? Yes, yes I will. See, it's nonsense, verging on clinical insanity, not something that can be dissuaded with "chill out". I'm actually rather pleased with the progress I've made; I swim in the sea and jump off boats and go snorkeling without too much thought these days. It's all about small manageable steps, and actually swimming with them is far beyond my definition of manageable.
So I've not gone snorkeling out on the reef today, and some of the other islanders seem to think this makes me a killjoy, and so I quite feel like spending the day by myself. I'm not in the best mood anyway, nothing to do with the island, not the sharks' fault, I'm just feeling rather subdued and contemplative. It doesn't help that I have been jokingly accused today of being 'grumpy' and 'unsociable'. I am aware of the fact that many a true word is said in jest, two can play at that game, so I "jokingly" suggested that yes, I am unsociable today, so why don't you take the hint and leave me alone? Ha ha ha. So that's what I'm doing today, sitting perfectly content at the far end of the beach, only really talking to Ella, and letting everyone else think I'm the most miserable sod on the planet if that's what they want to believe. In the words of my favourite Friends character, I'm finding it very hard to give a tiny rat's ass.
I know I must sound like a cantankerous, curmudgeonly old spoilsport, forgive my moans and groans. It's just that in normal life I'm not a naturally happy-clappy, sunny side of the street kind of a gal. I'm a cynic, an occasional pessimist, I've a sense of humour drier than the Sahara desert, and I don't mind my own company. Near on 5 months of constant excitement and joy needs to occasionally take a break from itself and release me into a state of self willed grumpiness, a 24 hour chance to match the laughter lines with some frown lines. I'll probably read back on this in a few weeks time and scold myself for being such an ungrateful misery guts. Right now though, I'm wallowing in it.
We're still living on Robinson Crusoe Island, still sunbathing and reading and sleeping like it's going out of fashion. We do go kayaking though, and snorkeling, ahh yes, snorkeling. We went out on the boat yesterday about 20 minutes from the island to some deeper coral reefs and I almost had a heart attack when, peacefully swimming along, a member of our group spotted a couple of rather large reef sharks skimming through the water below us. I believe I have previously mentioned my hatred of these creatures but I don't believe anyone understands quite how much they bother me. On the discovery that I was a mere 4ft above them and in their territory I began to uncontrollably shake and cry, and very nearly vomited. Ella was the most helpful, simply saying, "Keep your head out the water Grace, it's nearly over, I'll tell you when they're gone." Everyone else was quick to try and calm me down by offering platitudes such as "Reef sharks won't hurt you Grace, they're harmless!" and all wore confused expressions that suggested they were frustrated by my overreaction.
This is how I know that people do not understand. The knowing that these sharks weren't about to eat me does not make a blind bit of difference to the fear and physical symptoms of panic I feel upon seeing them. That's the point about phobias, they are not rational reactions, they are visceral manifestations of a feeling we can't control and telling someone who is mortally terrified of sharks to "chill out" whilst she's in the water with them is about as useful as telling someone having an asthma attack to "just breathe". Will the cartoon sharks in Finding Nemo jump out of the TV and bite me? No. But can I bring myself to come out from behind a pillow and watch that bit of the film? No I cannot. Do I know that there are no sharks in the swimming pool at my gym? Yes I do. But if I think about them when swimming does my heart beat out of my chest and my breathing become difficult? Yes it does. Do I realise that my bed is not floating on water and if my arm is hanging over the side there won't be any sharks underneath me to come and chew it off? Yes, I realise this. But will I still pull that arm straight back under the duvet to safety? Yes, yes I will. See, it's nonsense, verging on clinical insanity, not something that can be dissuaded with "chill out". I'm actually rather pleased with the progress I've made; I swim in the sea and jump off boats and go snorkeling without too much thought these days. It's all about small manageable steps, and actually swimming with them is far beyond my definition of manageable.
So I've not gone snorkeling out on the reef today, and some of the other islanders seem to think this makes me a killjoy, and so I quite feel like spending the day by myself. I'm not in the best mood anyway, nothing to do with the island, not the sharks' fault, I'm just feeling rather subdued and contemplative. It doesn't help that I have been jokingly accused today of being 'grumpy' and 'unsociable'. I am aware of the fact that many a true word is said in jest, two can play at that game, so I "jokingly" suggested that yes, I am unsociable today, so why don't you take the hint and leave me alone? Ha ha ha. So that's what I'm doing today, sitting perfectly content at the far end of the beach, only really talking to Ella, and letting everyone else think I'm the most miserable sod on the planet if that's what they want to believe. In the words of my favourite Friends character, I'm finding it very hard to give a tiny rat's ass.
I know I must sound like a cantankerous, curmudgeonly old spoilsport, forgive my moans and groans. It's just that in normal life I'm not a naturally happy-clappy, sunny side of the street kind of a gal. I'm a cynic, an occasional pessimist, I've a sense of humour drier than the Sahara desert, and I don't mind my own company. Near on 5 months of constant excitement and joy needs to occasionally take a break from itself and release me into a state of self willed grumpiness, a 24 hour chance to match the laughter lines with some frown lines. I'll probably read back on this in a few weeks time and scold myself for being such an ungrateful misery guts. Right now though, I'm wallowing in it.
Blessed With Less
Wednesday 14th April 2010, 2.45pm, Robinson Crusoe Island - Fiji
There's only so many ways I can tell you about a beach, and having calculated earlier today that the one I now occupy is the 24th beach of my travels, I am at real risk of repeating myself. You all know what a beach looks like, well at least you think you know what a beach looks like, that is, until you come to Fiji. We got to Fiji on Monday afternoon, but only properly arrived yesterday when we caught a boat over to Robinson Crusoe Island. It's basic, extremely basic. We're sleeping on wooden bunk beds under moth eaten mosquito nets in a 40 bed dorm, it's a culture of outdoor living, only the bedrooms come with a roof. Sand miraculously works it's way into everything, and seems to inhabit every part of your body and possessions from the moment you step on the island. People don't wear clothes, only swimwear feels appropriate and definitely not with shoes - even battered old flip flops feel too formal here.
You have to carry a torch around with you at night so as not to flatten any of the hermit crabs or cane toads who sit on the dirt paths seemingly waiting to be squashed. Plus, sea snakes come up the beach at night, and you really don't want to be treading on one of those slippery buggars, they're one of the most venomous creatures on earth, one bite and you'd pretty soon be on your way to a great big Fiji in the sky. I saw 4 last night, and screamed every time. The local speciality beverage is Kava, made from pulped plant roots soaked in urns of water. It is drunk cross legged on the floor from wooden bowls, looks and tastes like dirty dishwater, and gives my mouth pins and needles. I have yet to discover the true "herbal properties" of Kava, but from the way my lips went numb I'm guessing it's not an altogether innocent substance. All the hot food is cooked in an underground pit, heated by burning coconut husks.
To take a shower here you must fill a tin bucket with water from the well, detach a watering can from the wall on the shower block, fill up watering can with well water, hoist watering can to appropriate height using a pulley and lever system, turn a tap to open up the flow, and hope that you've got enough time to shampoo and shave your legs before the can empties without you having to run to the water source and start the whole process again whilst covered in suds and wrapped in a towel. I don't think I'll be showering often, too much like hard work in my opinion. But I love all this, this return to simple living, this provision of basic needs in return for an island home in the Pacific Ocean.
It takes 20 minutes to walk round the whole island, it looks like a circular sandy birthday cake with palm trees clustered as the swaying candles in the centre, the icing on said cake being the turquoise sea crowded with coral and reef life. There are a multitude of incredibly friendly staff here who have our names learnt by heart, and besides them, only 4 tourists (including Ella and I) are staying on this island. It is utopic, solitudinal, stranded in paradise beach heaven. Hammocks hang from the trees, a sea breeze blows refreshingly through 35 degree unclouded sunshine, coconut oil massages are on offer 12 hours of the day. Fish is line caught from wooden boats and cooked for you the same night, orchids and frangipanis in salmon pink and scarlet are left on your pillow, cocktails on the tab are pineapple and rum and banana liqueur and taste like the tropics... drinking at lunchtime is perfectly acceptable. Fijian men sit under the trees with their guitars and sing Van Morrison and Al Green melodies with voices like milk and honey, my sarong and my book sit on the flat, white sand and beckon me, and I am powerless to resist them much longer.
We knew nothing about Fiji before we got here, it was typical Grace and Ella "we'll sort something out when we get there" behaviour. Still in truth we know very little other than that it looks like somewhere I might want to go for eternity when I die. We have been handed advice by a few locals who say that to see the Real Fiji you have to go to the islands in the Mamanuca and Yasawa groups out from the West Coast of the mainland. Apparently, once you've seen one island, you've pretty much seen them all, and so we heeded that advice, swiftly left the airport town of Nadi around Tuesday lunchtime, and crossed the water. We're going to spend the next few weeks making temporary homes for ourselves on a few different beaches, taking time to unpack and unwind and enjoy these last days in each others' company. I can't see the unwinding part being a problem for us, we adapt pretty comfortably to beach living these days. I already look like an Asian Stig of the Dump, and earlier on I caught Ella wandering around in a homemade grass skirt and coconut bra like it was the most normal thing in the world. I promise I will try and keep up my writing whilst here, but you know how it is, the less you do, the less you can do. And here my friends, less is most certainly more.
There's only so many ways I can tell you about a beach, and having calculated earlier today that the one I now occupy is the 24th beach of my travels, I am at real risk of repeating myself. You all know what a beach looks like, well at least you think you know what a beach looks like, that is, until you come to Fiji. We got to Fiji on Monday afternoon, but only properly arrived yesterday when we caught a boat over to Robinson Crusoe Island. It's basic, extremely basic. We're sleeping on wooden bunk beds under moth eaten mosquito nets in a 40 bed dorm, it's a culture of outdoor living, only the bedrooms come with a roof. Sand miraculously works it's way into everything, and seems to inhabit every part of your body and possessions from the moment you step on the island. People don't wear clothes, only swimwear feels appropriate and definitely not with shoes - even battered old flip flops feel too formal here.
You have to carry a torch around with you at night so as not to flatten any of the hermit crabs or cane toads who sit on the dirt paths seemingly waiting to be squashed. Plus, sea snakes come up the beach at night, and you really don't want to be treading on one of those slippery buggars, they're one of the most venomous creatures on earth, one bite and you'd pretty soon be on your way to a great big Fiji in the sky. I saw 4 last night, and screamed every time. The local speciality beverage is Kava, made from pulped plant roots soaked in urns of water. It is drunk cross legged on the floor from wooden bowls, looks and tastes like dirty dishwater, and gives my mouth pins and needles. I have yet to discover the true "herbal properties" of Kava, but from the way my lips went numb I'm guessing it's not an altogether innocent substance. All the hot food is cooked in an underground pit, heated by burning coconut husks.
To take a shower here you must fill a tin bucket with water from the well, detach a watering can from the wall on the shower block, fill up watering can with well water, hoist watering can to appropriate height using a pulley and lever system, turn a tap to open up the flow, and hope that you've got enough time to shampoo and shave your legs before the can empties without you having to run to the water source and start the whole process again whilst covered in suds and wrapped in a towel. I don't think I'll be showering often, too much like hard work in my opinion. But I love all this, this return to simple living, this provision of basic needs in return for an island home in the Pacific Ocean.
It takes 20 minutes to walk round the whole island, it looks like a circular sandy birthday cake with palm trees clustered as the swaying candles in the centre, the icing on said cake being the turquoise sea crowded with coral and reef life. There are a multitude of incredibly friendly staff here who have our names learnt by heart, and besides them, only 4 tourists (including Ella and I) are staying on this island. It is utopic, solitudinal, stranded in paradise beach heaven. Hammocks hang from the trees, a sea breeze blows refreshingly through 35 degree unclouded sunshine, coconut oil massages are on offer 12 hours of the day. Fish is line caught from wooden boats and cooked for you the same night, orchids and frangipanis in salmon pink and scarlet are left on your pillow, cocktails on the tab are pineapple and rum and banana liqueur and taste like the tropics... drinking at lunchtime is perfectly acceptable. Fijian men sit under the trees with their guitars and sing Van Morrison and Al Green melodies with voices like milk and honey, my sarong and my book sit on the flat, white sand and beckon me, and I am powerless to resist them much longer.
We knew nothing about Fiji before we got here, it was typical Grace and Ella "we'll sort something out when we get there" behaviour. Still in truth we know very little other than that it looks like somewhere I might want to go for eternity when I die. We have been handed advice by a few locals who say that to see the Real Fiji you have to go to the islands in the Mamanuca and Yasawa groups out from the West Coast of the mainland. Apparently, once you've seen one island, you've pretty much seen them all, and so we heeded that advice, swiftly left the airport town of Nadi around Tuesday lunchtime, and crossed the water. We're going to spend the next few weeks making temporary homes for ourselves on a few different beaches, taking time to unpack and unwind and enjoy these last days in each others' company. I can't see the unwinding part being a problem for us, we adapt pretty comfortably to beach living these days. I already look like an Asian Stig of the Dump, and earlier on I caught Ella wandering around in a homemade grass skirt and coconut bra like it was the most normal thing in the world. I promise I will try and keep up my writing whilst here, but you know how it is, the less you do, the less you can do. And here my friends, less is most certainly more.
Friday 23 April 2010
A List's Completion
Sunday 11th April 2010, 10.55pm, ACB Hostel - Auckland
Auckland is our last port of call, this sprawling and commanding urban jungle that houses over a quarter of New Zealand's population and is a subject of derision and callous mocking for the other three quarters. Everywhere we've been, non-Auckland inhabiting Kiwis have been merciless and unforgiving in their despising of the country's significantly largest city, criticising the suit-wearing, Latte-drinking, soft top-driving culture of Yuppies that is evidently so detestable to the hardier country folk that live everywhere else.
It's a more exaggerated version of England's North/South divide, Auckland being the commercial and capitalist beast, the rest of the country defensively proud of their rural roots. Aucklanders are referred to as JAFAS, which stands for (excuse my French) Just Another Fucking Aucklander, their abundance in numbers has earned them quite the unfortunate nickname. On the way back down from Paihia on Friday afternoon, our driver announced to the bus, 'OK folks, the good news is that we're making quick time and should be at our destination in under 3 hours, the bad news is that this destination is Auckland'. The teasing and slander are endless.
I feel a little sorry for Auckland and it's unwarranted reputation. It's a massive city, and comes with all the chaos and mess and noise and rat-race freneticism that should be expected of a fully functioning business and residential hub. What are they all griping about?! Sure it's not beautiful, there's not a mountain behind every McDonalds, public transport sucks, people don't wave to you from their cars, there are more humans here than possums or sheep, and no one's asking if you want to go white water rafting, but it's a city for god's sake! The people who live here like cities and are slaving away at jobs in investment, insurance, retail, banking, tourism, that are undoubtedly contributing more than their fair share to the whole country's economy, not everyone can be a sheep farmer! Everyone else should quit their bitching in my opinion. But then, maybe I'd feel differently about this battle between country and city if I were a Northerner, rather than the evil Southern monster of a Londoner that I am.
Despite all the warnings from the bitter country Kiwis, Ella and I have had a really good time here. A couple of lazy days of shopping and coffee shop lounging were punctuated yesterday afternoon by going to see a rugby match, the Auckland Blues versus the South African Stormers, and marked the completion of my New Zealand 'To Do' list. Do you remember my mentioning of this list? An agenda of activities that I hoped to tick off whilst here? Well I've done all of them:
- Sky Diving
- Glacier Hiking
- Find Blanket Man
- Rugby Match
- Learn about Maori Heritage
- Wine Tasting
- See a Possum
- White Water Rafting
- Something Lord of the Rings related*
- Caving
- Jetboating
- Try a Fergburger**
Oh boy it's satisfying to finish a list, it might actually be the first time I ever have, usually I become frustrated at their incompletion, throw them away, and pretend they weren't things I really needed to do anyway. (My apologies now to any former colleagues of mine who were left with a myriad of Health and Safety tasks to complete after my resignation. I swear I always meant to sort out the fire hazards and fix the broken window locks, it just never seemed pressing, or interesting. If of course you have had a burglary or the office has burnt down since my departure, let me extend these apologies, and simultaneously accept no culpability for afore-mentioned mishaps). The rugby match was a thoroughly enjoyable way to round off list proceedings, and a prime opportunity to drink beer, shout a bit, and ogle what have to be some of the finest male specimens ever created; I was quite regretful afterwards not to have taken a banner with my phone number on.
But as ever, more surprises were ready to bestow themselves upon us even after we thought we had finished New Zealand. This evening we went for dinner with our friends Mitch and Bert, two native Aucklanders who we had met and spent Christmas with in Cambodia. We reminisced about our days on the beaches of South East Asia, laughed at Bert's performance on Christmas Day which earns him the accolade of Drunkest Person I Have Ever Seen, drove up to the top of a hill where we could view the whole city glittering and humming away in the evening darkness, and expressed our hopes for the next few months of our lives over ice cream sundaes by the sea. It was so wonderful to see them and to have some local tour guides, if you're ever in London fellas, mi casa es tu casa.
Tomorrow, Ella and I fly to Fiji to begin the last stage of our journey together, one chapter ends and the final one must begin. It is with heavy hearts that we will wave off this time, this country where I did everything I set out to do, and so much more besides. New Zealand has been the gift that kept on giving, and if I could, I would give it to all of you. As ever, I just hope that in some small way my writing of it has brought it to you, that you were given it in fragments of my worded joy before you come here for yourself, and see that I never once over sold what a magnificent place the last place on Earth really is.
*Not to boast, but I feel I excelled myself with this 'to do'.
**Infamous New Zealand fastfood joint in Queenstown, and easily the best burger that has ever graced my lips. Ella had 4 Fergburgers in 3 days. Yes, she's always hungry, but they really are that good.
Auckland is our last port of call, this sprawling and commanding urban jungle that houses over a quarter of New Zealand's population and is a subject of derision and callous mocking for the other three quarters. Everywhere we've been, non-Auckland inhabiting Kiwis have been merciless and unforgiving in their despising of the country's significantly largest city, criticising the suit-wearing, Latte-drinking, soft top-driving culture of Yuppies that is evidently so detestable to the hardier country folk that live everywhere else.
It's a more exaggerated version of England's North/South divide, Auckland being the commercial and capitalist beast, the rest of the country defensively proud of their rural roots. Aucklanders are referred to as JAFAS, which stands for (excuse my French) Just Another Fucking Aucklander, their abundance in numbers has earned them quite the unfortunate nickname. On the way back down from Paihia on Friday afternoon, our driver announced to the bus, 'OK folks, the good news is that we're making quick time and should be at our destination in under 3 hours, the bad news is that this destination is Auckland'. The teasing and slander are endless.
I feel a little sorry for Auckland and it's unwarranted reputation. It's a massive city, and comes with all the chaos and mess and noise and rat-race freneticism that should be expected of a fully functioning business and residential hub. What are they all griping about?! Sure it's not beautiful, there's not a mountain behind every McDonalds, public transport sucks, people don't wave to you from their cars, there are more humans here than possums or sheep, and no one's asking if you want to go white water rafting, but it's a city for god's sake! The people who live here like cities and are slaving away at jobs in investment, insurance, retail, banking, tourism, that are undoubtedly contributing more than their fair share to the whole country's economy, not everyone can be a sheep farmer! Everyone else should quit their bitching in my opinion. But then, maybe I'd feel differently about this battle between country and city if I were a Northerner, rather than the evil Southern monster of a Londoner that I am.
Despite all the warnings from the bitter country Kiwis, Ella and I have had a really good time here. A couple of lazy days of shopping and coffee shop lounging were punctuated yesterday afternoon by going to see a rugby match, the Auckland Blues versus the South African Stormers, and marked the completion of my New Zealand 'To Do' list. Do you remember my mentioning of this list? An agenda of activities that I hoped to tick off whilst here? Well I've done all of them:
- Sky Diving
- Glacier Hiking
- Find Blanket Man
- Rugby Match
- Learn about Maori Heritage
- Wine Tasting
- See a Possum
- White Water Rafting
- Something Lord of the Rings related*
- Caving
- Jetboating
- Try a Fergburger**
Oh boy it's satisfying to finish a list, it might actually be the first time I ever have, usually I become frustrated at their incompletion, throw them away, and pretend they weren't things I really needed to do anyway. (My apologies now to any former colleagues of mine who were left with a myriad of Health and Safety tasks to complete after my resignation. I swear I always meant to sort out the fire hazards and fix the broken window locks, it just never seemed pressing, or interesting. If of course you have had a burglary or the office has burnt down since my departure, let me extend these apologies, and simultaneously accept no culpability for afore-mentioned mishaps). The rugby match was a thoroughly enjoyable way to round off list proceedings, and a prime opportunity to drink beer, shout a bit, and ogle what have to be some of the finest male specimens ever created; I was quite regretful afterwards not to have taken a banner with my phone number on.
But as ever, more surprises were ready to bestow themselves upon us even after we thought we had finished New Zealand. This evening we went for dinner with our friends Mitch and Bert, two native Aucklanders who we had met and spent Christmas with in Cambodia. We reminisced about our days on the beaches of South East Asia, laughed at Bert's performance on Christmas Day which earns him the accolade of Drunkest Person I Have Ever Seen, drove up to the top of a hill where we could view the whole city glittering and humming away in the evening darkness, and expressed our hopes for the next few months of our lives over ice cream sundaes by the sea. It was so wonderful to see them and to have some local tour guides, if you're ever in London fellas, mi casa es tu casa.
Tomorrow, Ella and I fly to Fiji to begin the last stage of our journey together, one chapter ends and the final one must begin. It is with heavy hearts that we will wave off this time, this country where I did everything I set out to do, and so much more besides. New Zealand has been the gift that kept on giving, and if I could, I would give it to all of you. As ever, I just hope that in some small way my writing of it has brought it to you, that you were given it in fragments of my worded joy before you come here for yourself, and see that I never once over sold what a magnificent place the last place on Earth really is.
*Not to boast, but I feel I excelled myself with this 'to do'.
**Infamous New Zealand fastfood joint in Queenstown, and easily the best burger that has ever graced my lips. Ella had 4 Fergburgers in 3 days. Yes, she's always hungry, but they really are that good.
Never Finding The Last Surprise
Friday 9th April 2010, 1.10pm, Pipi Patch Dorms - Paihia
I've found that when we are nearing the end of our stay in any particular country, we have a tendency to wind down, to halt the daily need for excursions and activities and sight-seeing, and instead just sit somewhere and soak up our last days breathing that country's air. This is why we have spent the past 2 nights in Paihia, New Zealand's seaside and perfect vantage spot for reclining on the beach, basking in the last blessings of waning Summer sun, a time to be with the friends we've made who we will soon bid our farewells to, a time to reflect on this too quickly departed month. I have never expected much from these last days, and that is why I am so gratefully elated and surprised to have had one of my best Kiwi experiences this morning, when I thought I was too busy winding down for anything to wind me into action again.
Leaving Ella and the other girls to their hangovers and the beach, I went on a kayaking trip. Or more specifically, the Te Waka tour. 'Waka' is the Maori word for kayak, a 6-7 person wooden canoe boat that myself, my shipmates, and our Maori guide, Nick, pushed out into the water this morning and set to rowing out to sea in. We rowed to a small island called Tere Tere where we went on a walk through the forest up to a viewpoint from where you can look out across the Bay of Islands, 144 uninhabited pieces of land clustered sporadically off the coastline. We rowed again to a clump of sharp rocks in the middle of deep water between two islands, jumped over the side of the Waka, and went hunting for mussels, pulling those pesky morsels of seafood from the rocks they stubbornly cling to and throwing them into our collection bucket, holding on to each other for steadiness against the waves which crashed us in to the rocks and washed over our tired heads, Nick willing us on from the boat with cries of, 'just a few more guys, I'm mighty hungry today!'.
With mussel bucket in tow we rowed to a deserted beach where Nick boiled our catch up in a makeshift stove and poured us all a glass of wine from the stash he'd brought over in a cool box. Just as we were sitting down on the sand to our self-provided meal of freshly cooked mussels as big as your palm, and crisp, dry Chardonnay, the sun grew tenfold in strength, glistening on the peacock blue waves we had just supported each other in rowing across. It was perfect, just absolutely, in every sense, a perfect morning. The stuff that travelling and holiday makers dreams are made of. Invigorating exercise which made us a team and united us in camaraderie, spectacular scenery, delicious food that we'd worked for, wonderful company, a refreshing dip in the sea, a lunchtime tipple, and sunshine sat on the top of it all. I'm so thankful that in these winding down days, I found another reason to love this country, a morning I never could have predicted or expected.
Some people who have had varied and adventurous lives claim that because they have "seen it all", nothing can surprise them anymore. Think about it, you must yourself have heard someone of age and experience and supposed wisdom utter those very words; that they have been witness to so much, that nothing will ever have the power to catch them off guard again. I can't agree with the conditions of this statement, in fact I am beginning to believe that quite the opposite is true.
The more you see, the more you do, the greater the headcount of extraordinary life experiences that you can claim as yours, then surely the more you should realise how little you know, how we could live for eternity and still be blessed with mornings we never expected. All I know, is that the more I travel, the more I understand how little I have seen and done before. It is when you think that you can no longer be surprised that life will jump up and bite you in your blase behind. New experiences do not make me feel any more worldly wise, they only give me faith in what an endless multitude of surprises are still to come.
I've found that when we are nearing the end of our stay in any particular country, we have a tendency to wind down, to halt the daily need for excursions and activities and sight-seeing, and instead just sit somewhere and soak up our last days breathing that country's air. This is why we have spent the past 2 nights in Paihia, New Zealand's seaside and perfect vantage spot for reclining on the beach, basking in the last blessings of waning Summer sun, a time to be with the friends we've made who we will soon bid our farewells to, a time to reflect on this too quickly departed month. I have never expected much from these last days, and that is why I am so gratefully elated and surprised to have had one of my best Kiwi experiences this morning, when I thought I was too busy winding down for anything to wind me into action again.
Leaving Ella and the other girls to their hangovers and the beach, I went on a kayaking trip. Or more specifically, the Te Waka tour. 'Waka' is the Maori word for kayak, a 6-7 person wooden canoe boat that myself, my shipmates, and our Maori guide, Nick, pushed out into the water this morning and set to rowing out to sea in. We rowed to a small island called Tere Tere where we went on a walk through the forest up to a viewpoint from where you can look out across the Bay of Islands, 144 uninhabited pieces of land clustered sporadically off the coastline. We rowed again to a clump of sharp rocks in the middle of deep water between two islands, jumped over the side of the Waka, and went hunting for mussels, pulling those pesky morsels of seafood from the rocks they stubbornly cling to and throwing them into our collection bucket, holding on to each other for steadiness against the waves which crashed us in to the rocks and washed over our tired heads, Nick willing us on from the boat with cries of, 'just a few more guys, I'm mighty hungry today!'.
With mussel bucket in tow we rowed to a deserted beach where Nick boiled our catch up in a makeshift stove and poured us all a glass of wine from the stash he'd brought over in a cool box. Just as we were sitting down on the sand to our self-provided meal of freshly cooked mussels as big as your palm, and crisp, dry Chardonnay, the sun grew tenfold in strength, glistening on the peacock blue waves we had just supported each other in rowing across. It was perfect, just absolutely, in every sense, a perfect morning. The stuff that travelling and holiday makers dreams are made of. Invigorating exercise which made us a team and united us in camaraderie, spectacular scenery, delicious food that we'd worked for, wonderful company, a refreshing dip in the sea, a lunchtime tipple, and sunshine sat on the top of it all. I'm so thankful that in these winding down days, I found another reason to love this country, a morning I never could have predicted or expected.
Some people who have had varied and adventurous lives claim that because they have "seen it all", nothing can surprise them anymore. Think about it, you must yourself have heard someone of age and experience and supposed wisdom utter those very words; that they have been witness to so much, that nothing will ever have the power to catch them off guard again. I can't agree with the conditions of this statement, in fact I am beginning to believe that quite the opposite is true.
The more you see, the more you do, the greater the headcount of extraordinary life experiences that you can claim as yours, then surely the more you should realise how little you know, how we could live for eternity and still be blessed with mornings we never expected. All I know, is that the more I travel, the more I understand how little I have seen and done before. It is when you think that you can no longer be surprised that life will jump up and bite you in your blase behind. New experiences do not make me feel any more worldly wise, they only give me faith in what an endless multitude of surprises are still to come.
Thursday 22 April 2010
The Swim Back
Thursday 8th April 2010, 8pm, Pipi Patch Dorms - Paihia
I've moved a long way up the country since I last wrote. From the mid North Island town of Rotorua I went 3 hours with the big green bus up to Auckland where I spent one night on Tuesday. Then yesterday morning I dozily fidgeted around in bed and lent towards the window to get some light on my watch to see that it was 7 minutes past 7, the bus I had to catch at quarter past 7 that morning was already waiting for me on the pavement below. My alarm had made it's own decisions and obviously wanted to see me rush. It will be some indication as to the time I spend on my appearance and general grooming habits these days to tell you that at 16 minutes past the hour, I was sat on that bus, reading a book and eating an orange, backpack and hand luggage packed, locked, and stowed, pillowcase and key having been handed in at reception. Sure, I ain't pretty, but I'm punctual.
That nearly-missed bus brought me to where I now write to you from, Paihia, the Bay of Islands, New Zealand's Northern most tourist haven and beautiful beach town. I caught up with Ella here as she was one day ahead of me out of Rotorua, not wanting to spend the extra day white water rafting. The two of us along with two new friends (both called Emma) went on a day trip today to the tip of the North Island, Cape Reinga. It wouldn't be an excursion I'd recommend to anyone who may suffer from motion sickness. I am usually a thoroughly sturdy traveller who can read and write and eat and look out the window without so much as a single butterfly flapping around my stomach. Not today however. Sat up the back of the coach, because it's like, you know, the law for the cool kids to sit there (there were also no other seats available), and heaving on every bend that we span through during the 6 hour round trip, I officially experienced my first taste of car sickness. Thankfully no actual vomiting occurred, but I did feel so nauseous that I imagined a whole army of winged creatures fluttering about my digestive system.
By the time we arrived at the Cape, I practically rolled down the coach steps and inhaled that fresh sea air like I'd been underwater for 3 hours. Despite the misery of travel ills I am pleased I got to see New Zealand's last piece of land. This is the only place in the North Island which I feel truly rivals the South Island in scale, drama and rugged naturalness. I know I've used this word a lot to describe the landscape here, but when I'm floundering for ways to tell you about it, this is the one that my brain keeps repeating, it's the only word that satisfactorily encapsulates a view such as the one I have seen today; it is EPIC. A force of opposing elements in battle with each other for centre stage, a strip of craggy rock that stretches out into inky water where two oceans meet, the Pacific and the Tasmen Sea, colliding at the tip of this country, creating vast and swirling whirlpools where their currents clash, their waves travelling from half a world's distance to meet each other here at this agreed reunion spot. Sky and sea stretch uninterrupted for so many miles that it's hard to make out the horizon's separating line between them. This is the kind of view that would have made people of centuries past believe that the world was flat, and that you could fall off the end of it.
The black piece of rock that stretches out in to the sea has a single gnarled tree clinging to it. It's hard to determine proportion from where you view it on the cape, but it looks to be as tall as an adult Oak, as spindly as a Silver Birch, as black and withered as one often lightning struck. The Maoris believe that the roots of this lonely tree form steps from which the dead descend to the water below. It is here that Maori spirits climb down this woody ladder, dive in to the ocean, and swim across the Pacific to be reunited in death with the island of Haiwaiki, their ancestral homeland and origin of that first voyage to New Zealand. 'Reinga' is the Maori word for the underworld. This story, seeing this tree, is what made my car sickness a manageable evil today. Homecoming; it reminded me of the herons in Petulu, the swallows in Elm Avenue, of my own resistance towards the inevitable return journey. Everyone and everything it seems has a need to be reconciled with where they came from.
When I was 16 I started working for a company called Crossroads where my job was to provide respite care for disabled 5 to 18 year olds. This job was at times very difficult, emotionally challenging, physically exhausting, left me frequently covered in other people's sick and poo and spit, and my own bruises, and to top it all off... was based in Dagenham. I stuck with it though, in truth I absolutely loved it, and returned every school and University holiday to work for Crossroads and the parents and children there until I was 21. When I left University I accepted an equally strenuous and stressful (if not quite so messy) job, in Dagenham again, teaching Drama to children and teenagers of mixed ability at a school just off of the hell pit that is the Heathway. It was hard work, with much pressure and responsibility placed on my shoulders - but placed there by myself. One of the reasons that I saw a year in that job through whilst simultaneously working full-time for Social Services is that I felt, what I have only identified now, as an obligation of service to that small Dagenham community. I felt like that group needed me, I was told by parents and teachers what an important extra-curricular outlet this group was for those children, what a rare opportunity it was for them to be able to freely express some kind of creativity in a safe environment, it was, for a few hours a week, giving them a voice.
Dagenham isn't an easy place for a child to grow up; senior schools are fitted with metal detectors, gang culture is rife, it's a highly multi-cultural London borough that voted in the BNP, literacy rates and qualification tallies are significantly lower than the national average, teenage pregnancy, disability and crime rates are among some of the highest in the country, one statistic from late 2008 suggested that 55% of children were living in families affected by poverty, every other person you meet will be claiming some kind of state benefit, I could go on, but it only gets more depressing. Dagenham is where I was born. I lived there for the first few baby years of my life before my parents did the best thing they have ever done for me - they moved. I was spared a childhood growing up on the graffitied estates and syringe littered public parks of that borough; a self-conscious, bookish, sarcastic little swot like me would have had a bloody tough time at school with some of those streetwise, mouthy sweethearts I later volunteered to teach. I have always been immeasurably grateful to Pat and Ray Gillman for financially damaging themselves in order to save me from that possible outcome, and yet what did I do? The second I was old enough to take employment, I went right back to Dagenham, to see if there was anyone there who I might be useful to. Call it a payback, a reimbursement of debt through duty. I've always felt like I had a lucky escape, but knew there were other children who hadn't, and won't, and I went to them. If the right post came up I'd work there again quite happily, as much as I abhor it sometimes, I feel a tangible connection to the place and the people.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that after I die I can see my spirit hopping on the District Line and joyfully floating off somewhere between Elm Park and Upney, it won't be merrily clambering on to a 174 and gliding off the bus at the Civic Roundabout. But what I saw today reminded me of this half-hearted, partial return that I once made, back to good old Dagenham. Standing on that last piece of land, seeing that tree and the eternal ocean beyond it, imagining hoards of ghostly Maori spectres queuing around me, waiting for their turn to climb down the roots and go loyally back to Haiwaiki, it made me wonder, where, when it matters, will feel like home enough to me that I'd be willing to swim an ocean to reach it?
I've moved a long way up the country since I last wrote. From the mid North Island town of Rotorua I went 3 hours with the big green bus up to Auckland where I spent one night on Tuesday. Then yesterday morning I dozily fidgeted around in bed and lent towards the window to get some light on my watch to see that it was 7 minutes past 7, the bus I had to catch at quarter past 7 that morning was already waiting for me on the pavement below. My alarm had made it's own decisions and obviously wanted to see me rush. It will be some indication as to the time I spend on my appearance and general grooming habits these days to tell you that at 16 minutes past the hour, I was sat on that bus, reading a book and eating an orange, backpack and hand luggage packed, locked, and stowed, pillowcase and key having been handed in at reception. Sure, I ain't pretty, but I'm punctual.
That nearly-missed bus brought me to where I now write to you from, Paihia, the Bay of Islands, New Zealand's Northern most tourist haven and beautiful beach town. I caught up with Ella here as she was one day ahead of me out of Rotorua, not wanting to spend the extra day white water rafting. The two of us along with two new friends (both called Emma) went on a day trip today to the tip of the North Island, Cape Reinga. It wouldn't be an excursion I'd recommend to anyone who may suffer from motion sickness. I am usually a thoroughly sturdy traveller who can read and write and eat and look out the window without so much as a single butterfly flapping around my stomach. Not today however. Sat up the back of the coach, because it's like, you know, the law for the cool kids to sit there (there were also no other seats available), and heaving on every bend that we span through during the 6 hour round trip, I officially experienced my first taste of car sickness. Thankfully no actual vomiting occurred, but I did feel so nauseous that I imagined a whole army of winged creatures fluttering about my digestive system.
By the time we arrived at the Cape, I practically rolled down the coach steps and inhaled that fresh sea air like I'd been underwater for 3 hours. Despite the misery of travel ills I am pleased I got to see New Zealand's last piece of land. This is the only place in the North Island which I feel truly rivals the South Island in scale, drama and rugged naturalness. I know I've used this word a lot to describe the landscape here, but when I'm floundering for ways to tell you about it, this is the one that my brain keeps repeating, it's the only word that satisfactorily encapsulates a view such as the one I have seen today; it is EPIC. A force of opposing elements in battle with each other for centre stage, a strip of craggy rock that stretches out into inky water where two oceans meet, the Pacific and the Tasmen Sea, colliding at the tip of this country, creating vast and swirling whirlpools where their currents clash, their waves travelling from half a world's distance to meet each other here at this agreed reunion spot. Sky and sea stretch uninterrupted for so many miles that it's hard to make out the horizon's separating line between them. This is the kind of view that would have made people of centuries past believe that the world was flat, and that you could fall off the end of it.
The black piece of rock that stretches out in to the sea has a single gnarled tree clinging to it. It's hard to determine proportion from where you view it on the cape, but it looks to be as tall as an adult Oak, as spindly as a Silver Birch, as black and withered as one often lightning struck. The Maoris believe that the roots of this lonely tree form steps from which the dead descend to the water below. It is here that Maori spirits climb down this woody ladder, dive in to the ocean, and swim across the Pacific to be reunited in death with the island of Haiwaiki, their ancestral homeland and origin of that first voyage to New Zealand. 'Reinga' is the Maori word for the underworld. This story, seeing this tree, is what made my car sickness a manageable evil today. Homecoming; it reminded me of the herons in Petulu, the swallows in Elm Avenue, of my own resistance towards the inevitable return journey. Everyone and everything it seems has a need to be reconciled with where they came from.
When I was 16 I started working for a company called Crossroads where my job was to provide respite care for disabled 5 to 18 year olds. This job was at times very difficult, emotionally challenging, physically exhausting, left me frequently covered in other people's sick and poo and spit, and my own bruises, and to top it all off... was based in Dagenham. I stuck with it though, in truth I absolutely loved it, and returned every school and University holiday to work for Crossroads and the parents and children there until I was 21. When I left University I accepted an equally strenuous and stressful (if not quite so messy) job, in Dagenham again, teaching Drama to children and teenagers of mixed ability at a school just off of the hell pit that is the Heathway. It was hard work, with much pressure and responsibility placed on my shoulders - but placed there by myself. One of the reasons that I saw a year in that job through whilst simultaneously working full-time for Social Services is that I felt, what I have only identified now, as an obligation of service to that small Dagenham community. I felt like that group needed me, I was told by parents and teachers what an important extra-curricular outlet this group was for those children, what a rare opportunity it was for them to be able to freely express some kind of creativity in a safe environment, it was, for a few hours a week, giving them a voice.
Dagenham isn't an easy place for a child to grow up; senior schools are fitted with metal detectors, gang culture is rife, it's a highly multi-cultural London borough that voted in the BNP, literacy rates and qualification tallies are significantly lower than the national average, teenage pregnancy, disability and crime rates are among some of the highest in the country, one statistic from late 2008 suggested that 55% of children were living in families affected by poverty, every other person you meet will be claiming some kind of state benefit, I could go on, but it only gets more depressing. Dagenham is where I was born. I lived there for the first few baby years of my life before my parents did the best thing they have ever done for me - they moved. I was spared a childhood growing up on the graffitied estates and syringe littered public parks of that borough; a self-conscious, bookish, sarcastic little swot like me would have had a bloody tough time at school with some of those streetwise, mouthy sweethearts I later volunteered to teach. I have always been immeasurably grateful to Pat and Ray Gillman for financially damaging themselves in order to save me from that possible outcome, and yet what did I do? The second I was old enough to take employment, I went right back to Dagenham, to see if there was anyone there who I might be useful to. Call it a payback, a reimbursement of debt through duty. I've always felt like I had a lucky escape, but knew there were other children who hadn't, and won't, and I went to them. If the right post came up I'd work there again quite happily, as much as I abhor it sometimes, I feel a tangible connection to the place and the people.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that after I die I can see my spirit hopping on the District Line and joyfully floating off somewhere between Elm Park and Upney, it won't be merrily clambering on to a 174 and gliding off the bus at the Civic Roundabout. But what I saw today reminded me of this half-hearted, partial return that I once made, back to good old Dagenham. Standing on that last piece of land, seeing that tree and the eternal ocean beyond it, imagining hoards of ghostly Maori spectres queuing around me, waiting for their turn to climb down the roots and go loyally back to Haiwaiki, it made me wonder, where, when it matters, will feel like home enough to me that I'd be willing to swim an ocean to reach it?
Wednesday 21 April 2010
Fear Factors
Monday 5th April 2010, 9.50pm, Lava Bar - Rotorua
I suspect that it will only be when I eventually return home that I realise how travelling for this long has changed me. I know I have changed, I do not expect that you can see the things I have seen and become used to the way of life that now seems normal to me without it affecting your outlook and aspirations somewhat. But maybe it will need for me to be back on the grey and familiar streets of London to realise that I will no longer settle for greyness, knowing as I do that there are some places on Earth so overwhelmed in colour, the familiar will be made unfamiliar because I will be looking on it with a brand new pair of eyes.
There is one thing about me though that I can recognise the change in without having to go home to feel it. It has been gradually but forcibly creeping up on me, promising to take me hostage before I have any time to protest. At first I thought it was because of the Kiwis and the affect their laissez faire attitude to everything was having on me, but when I dissect the matter I realise that it has been building for much longer than that, really from the moment I arrived in Thailand, perhaps even from when I boarded that plane to Bangkok alone. From the first time I got on the back of a motorbike, drank snake wine, abseiled down a waterfall, jumped off a cliff into a lagoon, cycled through rice paddies in the dark, went snorkeling with the risk of sharks in the water, scaled slippery jungle mountain slopes, showered beneath tarantulas on the ceiling, gave blood at a Cambodian hospital, jumped out of a plane; I have been getting braver.
My friends and family will no doubt unanimously attest to the fact that although I may be many things, brave has never been one of them. I worry with the weight of the world on my shoulders, and whilst I'm busy fretting about everybody else, they use theirs and my share of courage to make adventurous leaps and bounds ahead of me. Not any more though. Living as I have been for the past 4 months has taught me that all of these things I dread happening, will probably never happen. And if they do? Well I have the strength of character and support of loved ones to see them through, setbacks will not make me crumble, I will no longer be left shaking and crying and hugging my knees to my chest in the corner of the room if things go wrong. The exhilaration and breathless sense of being truly alive that I have earned from doing things that scare me is worth every remote risk I may have had to take.
The reason that I am caused to write about this change in me this evening is because I have spent the past 2 days indulging in activities that 6 months ago I would have shied away from. Yesterday, Ella and I went caving and underground tubing, and today I have been white water rafting. The Waitomo Caves trip involved climbing into a wetsuit and helmet, throwing a rubber ring over my shoulder and following our fantastic female guides through caves and potholes 65ft beneath the earth to an underground, freezing cold river which you by turns scale on hands and knees through narrow rocky alleyways, and at other times when the water is too deep and the passage opens up, sit back in your tube and sail along in the dank, dark, watery underworld.
At one point the only way of negotiating the path of the river is to stand on a slimy rock ledge, 4 metres high, and jump backwards off of it in to a pool at the bottom of the waterfall which you can't see. You only know it's there because of the splash and the scream others make after they have propelled themselves bum-first into the darkness. Small torches are fitted in to the helmets so you are not expected to navigate in pitch blackness for the whole 2 hours, but the guides like to make it more exciting by ordering everyone to turn off their lights so that you are able to marvel at the thousands of glow worms which glitter on the stalactites above you. I additionally quite liked having the lights off because it meant I couldn't scan the water around me for eels - the caves' only other living inhabitants.
White water rafting today was similarly nerve testing. On the coach on the way to the river the guides delight in telling you that the treacherousness and speed of rapids are measured on a scale of 1 to 6, 1 being a tame little river that even Nanny Gillman might enjoy a cruise down, 6 being the kind of currents and drops that even the guys running the rafting centre very rarely dare to take a boat on. Number 5 is the highest grade of rapids that it is legal to raft commercially with paying customers, so guess what level of danger I was about to set off on in a rubber dingy? Yep, 5 of course. Again, the guides were amazing people, and all looked like the kind of men who might happily stick their head in the mouth of a crocodile just to see what would happen, or set themselves on fire for a bet, or ask to be tattooed on their tongue, whilst bungy jumping, blindfolded, from a helicopter over the Grand Canyon. You get the idea; these are the adrenalin junkies and fearless extreme sports nuts that I was so careful to hide from in Queenstown, truly charming, completely bonkers blokes. I was only slightly concerned that a few of them seemed to be missing front teeth, but elected to conclude that this was down to drunken tomfoolery and bar brawls as opposed to a direct result of the activity I was about to participate in.
They really pump you up for it, instructing the 5 of you in your boat to raise your oars and clap them together in a symbol of tribal solidarity, whilst they pray aloud to the Maori ancestors to keep you safe. Then everyone is instructed to chant the Hakka, the chorus becoming louder, faster and more impassioned as you sit in the boat gripping the vines on the banks to stop yourself catapulting downstream before everyone is ready. The air vibrates with energy and expectation and a spine-tingling, hair-raising electric fear pulses through the water, around the boats and right out the top of your helmet clad head. The atmosphere was infectious and addictive, these men have realised how to market fear - the good kind of fear - and sell it to whingeing, cowardly Poms.
This is what I could never grasp before I came away, the fact that there are two types of fear. The kind that is quietly terrifying, gut-wrenching, appetite thieving, soul destroying - the one that makes you want to wrap up those you love in your duvet and never let them walk out the front door in case Something Happens. The kind you feel when your Mum is ill, or when your friend stays in a relationship that will damage her, or when one of the vulnerable teenagers at work who you so love and cherish stops answering their phone, or when you see your sister growing up and the world and it's disappointments gaining in opportunities to hurt her; these are real fears, the justifiable kind.
But the other kind, the one I felt today as me and my crew approached the top of a 7 metre waterfall that our raft then plummeted over the top of, this fear is fleeting and assailable, momentarily shocking your heart so that it beats with the fervour and intensity required sometimes to remind us that we are living, not merely existing. Feel your heart pound in your throat, feel it reverberate through to the trembling tips of your fingertips, scare yourself, stick it to the Health and Safety bureaucrats, put yourself in measured danger to see how jubilant you feel to come through it, and then try and tell me that good fear does not exist. It's purely and simply life affirming.
I suspect that it will only be when I eventually return home that I realise how travelling for this long has changed me. I know I have changed, I do not expect that you can see the things I have seen and become used to the way of life that now seems normal to me without it affecting your outlook and aspirations somewhat. But maybe it will need for me to be back on the grey and familiar streets of London to realise that I will no longer settle for greyness, knowing as I do that there are some places on Earth so overwhelmed in colour, the familiar will be made unfamiliar because I will be looking on it with a brand new pair of eyes.
There is one thing about me though that I can recognise the change in without having to go home to feel it. It has been gradually but forcibly creeping up on me, promising to take me hostage before I have any time to protest. At first I thought it was because of the Kiwis and the affect their laissez faire attitude to everything was having on me, but when I dissect the matter I realise that it has been building for much longer than that, really from the moment I arrived in Thailand, perhaps even from when I boarded that plane to Bangkok alone. From the first time I got on the back of a motorbike, drank snake wine, abseiled down a waterfall, jumped off a cliff into a lagoon, cycled through rice paddies in the dark, went snorkeling with the risk of sharks in the water, scaled slippery jungle mountain slopes, showered beneath tarantulas on the ceiling, gave blood at a Cambodian hospital, jumped out of a plane; I have been getting braver.
My friends and family will no doubt unanimously attest to the fact that although I may be many things, brave has never been one of them. I worry with the weight of the world on my shoulders, and whilst I'm busy fretting about everybody else, they use theirs and my share of courage to make adventurous leaps and bounds ahead of me. Not any more though. Living as I have been for the past 4 months has taught me that all of these things I dread happening, will probably never happen. And if they do? Well I have the strength of character and support of loved ones to see them through, setbacks will not make me crumble, I will no longer be left shaking and crying and hugging my knees to my chest in the corner of the room if things go wrong. The exhilaration and breathless sense of being truly alive that I have earned from doing things that scare me is worth every remote risk I may have had to take.
The reason that I am caused to write about this change in me this evening is because I have spent the past 2 days indulging in activities that 6 months ago I would have shied away from. Yesterday, Ella and I went caving and underground tubing, and today I have been white water rafting. The Waitomo Caves trip involved climbing into a wetsuit and helmet, throwing a rubber ring over my shoulder and following our fantastic female guides through caves and potholes 65ft beneath the earth to an underground, freezing cold river which you by turns scale on hands and knees through narrow rocky alleyways, and at other times when the water is too deep and the passage opens up, sit back in your tube and sail along in the dank, dark, watery underworld.
At one point the only way of negotiating the path of the river is to stand on a slimy rock ledge, 4 metres high, and jump backwards off of it in to a pool at the bottom of the waterfall which you can't see. You only know it's there because of the splash and the scream others make after they have propelled themselves bum-first into the darkness. Small torches are fitted in to the helmets so you are not expected to navigate in pitch blackness for the whole 2 hours, but the guides like to make it more exciting by ordering everyone to turn off their lights so that you are able to marvel at the thousands of glow worms which glitter on the stalactites above you. I additionally quite liked having the lights off because it meant I couldn't scan the water around me for eels - the caves' only other living inhabitants.
White water rafting today was similarly nerve testing. On the coach on the way to the river the guides delight in telling you that the treacherousness and speed of rapids are measured on a scale of 1 to 6, 1 being a tame little river that even Nanny Gillman might enjoy a cruise down, 6 being the kind of currents and drops that even the guys running the rafting centre very rarely dare to take a boat on. Number 5 is the highest grade of rapids that it is legal to raft commercially with paying customers, so guess what level of danger I was about to set off on in a rubber dingy? Yep, 5 of course. Again, the guides were amazing people, and all looked like the kind of men who might happily stick their head in the mouth of a crocodile just to see what would happen, or set themselves on fire for a bet, or ask to be tattooed on their tongue, whilst bungy jumping, blindfolded, from a helicopter over the Grand Canyon. You get the idea; these are the adrenalin junkies and fearless extreme sports nuts that I was so careful to hide from in Queenstown, truly charming, completely bonkers blokes. I was only slightly concerned that a few of them seemed to be missing front teeth, but elected to conclude that this was down to drunken tomfoolery and bar brawls as opposed to a direct result of the activity I was about to participate in.
They really pump you up for it, instructing the 5 of you in your boat to raise your oars and clap them together in a symbol of tribal solidarity, whilst they pray aloud to the Maori ancestors to keep you safe. Then everyone is instructed to chant the Hakka, the chorus becoming louder, faster and more impassioned as you sit in the boat gripping the vines on the banks to stop yourself catapulting downstream before everyone is ready. The air vibrates with energy and expectation and a spine-tingling, hair-raising electric fear pulses through the water, around the boats and right out the top of your helmet clad head. The atmosphere was infectious and addictive, these men have realised how to market fear - the good kind of fear - and sell it to whingeing, cowardly Poms.
This is what I could never grasp before I came away, the fact that there are two types of fear. The kind that is quietly terrifying, gut-wrenching, appetite thieving, soul destroying - the one that makes you want to wrap up those you love in your duvet and never let them walk out the front door in case Something Happens. The kind you feel when your Mum is ill, or when your friend stays in a relationship that will damage her, or when one of the vulnerable teenagers at work who you so love and cherish stops answering their phone, or when you see your sister growing up and the world and it's disappointments gaining in opportunities to hurt her; these are real fears, the justifiable kind.
But the other kind, the one I felt today as me and my crew approached the top of a 7 metre waterfall that our raft then plummeted over the top of, this fear is fleeting and assailable, momentarily shocking your heart so that it beats with the fervour and intensity required sometimes to remind us that we are living, not merely existing. Feel your heart pound in your throat, feel it reverberate through to the trembling tips of your fingertips, scare yourself, stick it to the Health and Safety bureaucrats, put yourself in measured danger to see how jubilant you feel to come through it, and then try and tell me that good fear does not exist. It's purely and simply life affirming.
The Empire's Anomaly
Saturday 3rd March 2010, 9.25pm, Hot Rocks Hostel - Rotorua
I come from a country of conquerors. Of settlers and invaders, explorers and militia, sailors and governors, an ancestral legacy of men who found and claimed the remotest parts of the planet for their own. Whether I like it or not, I am descended from the Empire, the most successful conquering empire the world ever saw. There is very little in this for me to feel proud of - the history is chequered, the tactics underhand, the behaviour barbaric. I come from a country where the accruement of land came at a higher value than human life; indigenous human life.
There is no need for me to brief you on British colonial history, firstly because I am no authority on the subject and secondly because I acknowledge your intelligence dear reader - no one had to take a history degree to know the well documented catalogue of inhumanities committed by British settlers throughout the Americas, Africa, India, Australia... Yes, we were the winners, but winning came at far too high a cost for the communities throughout the globe which we "civilised", raped, stole from, imprisoned, cast out, disenfranchised, made slaves and circus freaks of. In New Zealand, I have found a gratifying and refreshing anomaly in a history so marred by cruelty and shame. Something happened here, something very different, and it makes me wonder why we couldn't have always got it this right.
When Captain James Cook moored these shores near modern day Gisborne, he brought with him a Polynesian friend who could communicate with the indigenous population - the Maoris. This proved to be an extremely beneficial decision to the Captain; the Maoris were a nation of warriors, fluent and accomplished in tribal warfare, guerrilla hit and run tactics and trench combat - they were progressively beyond their time in the rudiments of war, and a fearsome people under attack. But to friends, to people who claimed - as the Captain and Tupaia, his Polynesian translator, did - that they were coming in peace, they were and still are some of the most welcoming and accepting people on the planet. Guests are family, treated with respect and generous hospitality. Captain Cook did well not to make an enemy of these people, otherwise the course of history, and the nature of Cook's demise, may have been markedly different.
Thankfully for the eponymous Captain though, and for the Maori people, there existed between the two parties a mutual respect that was unique and so far unencountered throughout the colonised nations of the world. European immigrants in search of a better life soon began embarking upon this country in droves after Cook sent word back to the homeland of what a picturesque and habitable landscape this was, and these Europeans were rightfully impressed by what they saw. Not only the regimes of Maori warfare, but also their commitment to family and tribe, their advanced irrigation systems, their techniques for dealing with unpredictable weather conditions, and their early ideas and plans for tourism all garnered them the admiration of the settlers, this "uncivilised" nation taught invading white faces, for the first time in colonial history, what it really meant to be a civilian.
This was the first country in the world, where from day one, irrespective of race or religion, all men over the age of 21 were entitled to a democratic vote. It is also the first country that granted the vote to women. The year of 1840 saw the writing of a crucial historic document, The Treaty of Waitangi. This agreement was signed by the English dignitaries and ambassadors who had made the voyage out to the Southern hemisphere, as well as every chief from the 400 separate Maori tribes occupying New Zealand at that time. It decreed that this country would become part of the British empire, governed by English sovereignty, but the treaty similarly protected the Maoris' right to their country, stating that they would be the people who owned their land, it also gave Maoris the rights of British subjects. It was the first document of it's kind, the only written agreement in history which recognised the liberty of the indigenous race. It has been a subject of heated debate up until this present day, with many Maoris claiming that promises were not kept and using the Treaty as a legal document in which to reclaim land and money. For this reason the Waitangi Tribunal was established in 1975, to ensure the rules of this paper are adhered to and to take on any cases in dispute.
Compare this to the colonisation of Australia, where until 1970, Aborigines were not legally defined as human beings. Quite dramatically different stories I think you'll agree. In the 1860's, when a handful of Maori tribes decided they wanted rid of the settlers, the majority of Maoris fought side by side with the Europeans to quell the oncoming rebellion. And this is how it has been until this day, descendants of European settlers and Maoris, side by side, living, working, playing, celebrating their history together.
This causes me some sadness as I sit here and ponder on this now. What ills and atrocities in our world may have been averted if people had always shown each other such mutual compassion and respect? New Zealand just proves that it was possible, possible for England to expand her empire without the devastation to innocent people. Things could have been so different, the world could be so much better for the millions of human beings living under 3rd World classification today had their civil liberties not been so hastily and contemptuously removed from them. These wrong doings feel all the more painfully acute to me knowing that they were avoidable.
We arrived in Rotorua this afternoon to be greeted by hills of sublime rainforest greenery, gargantuan clouds of steam rising from the countryside in thick, fluffy white towers, landscape dotted with dozens of natural hot pools and the smell of sulphur, potent and odiously prevalent on every molecule of air - it's the capital of Volcanic geo-thermal activity. Tonight we have been on a Maori heritage trip to the Tamaki Village; a community of huts in the midst of the forest about 20 minutes outside of Rotorua town that is set up to precisely resemble a Maori settlement as it would have been before the colonisers arrived. We were entertained with music and dancing, taught about their culture, weapons and living conditions, fed a veritable feast of roasted meat and vegetables cooked in a Hangi - an underground oven - and treated to a performance of the Hakka.
Huge Maori men wearing grass skirts and facial tattoos, and carrying foot long machetes, chanted and stamped, grimaced and gurned, waggling their tongues and protruding their eyeballs in a traditional demonstration of how rival tribes would greet each other - showcasing their ferocity and hopefully striking fear in to the hearts of any possible enemy. The threat that this dance carries would not be followed through however if the invaders signify that they are well intentioned visitors. After the Hakka a leaf is placed on the floor between the opposing sides and a member of our group was instructed to walk slowly forward and pick up the offering; a sign of a peaceful guest. If this ritual was carried through you would be, as we were tonight, welcomed in to the arms of the tribe with warmth and laughter and kindness.
I come from a country of conquerors, of settlers and invaders, explorers and militia, sailors and governors, the Great British Empire. The Great, but not the Good. Goodness is what matters to me, and how I wish I could say that I am descended from people who more often than they did, put down their hatred, and picked up the leaf.
I come from a country of conquerors. Of settlers and invaders, explorers and militia, sailors and governors, an ancestral legacy of men who found and claimed the remotest parts of the planet for their own. Whether I like it or not, I am descended from the Empire, the most successful conquering empire the world ever saw. There is very little in this for me to feel proud of - the history is chequered, the tactics underhand, the behaviour barbaric. I come from a country where the accruement of land came at a higher value than human life; indigenous human life.
There is no need for me to brief you on British colonial history, firstly because I am no authority on the subject and secondly because I acknowledge your intelligence dear reader - no one had to take a history degree to know the well documented catalogue of inhumanities committed by British settlers throughout the Americas, Africa, India, Australia... Yes, we were the winners, but winning came at far too high a cost for the communities throughout the globe which we "civilised", raped, stole from, imprisoned, cast out, disenfranchised, made slaves and circus freaks of. In New Zealand, I have found a gratifying and refreshing anomaly in a history so marred by cruelty and shame. Something happened here, something very different, and it makes me wonder why we couldn't have always got it this right.
When Captain James Cook moored these shores near modern day Gisborne, he brought with him a Polynesian friend who could communicate with the indigenous population - the Maoris. This proved to be an extremely beneficial decision to the Captain; the Maoris were a nation of warriors, fluent and accomplished in tribal warfare, guerrilla hit and run tactics and trench combat - they were progressively beyond their time in the rudiments of war, and a fearsome people under attack. But to friends, to people who claimed - as the Captain and Tupaia, his Polynesian translator, did - that they were coming in peace, they were and still are some of the most welcoming and accepting people on the planet. Guests are family, treated with respect and generous hospitality. Captain Cook did well not to make an enemy of these people, otherwise the course of history, and the nature of Cook's demise, may have been markedly different.
Thankfully for the eponymous Captain though, and for the Maori people, there existed between the two parties a mutual respect that was unique and so far unencountered throughout the colonised nations of the world. European immigrants in search of a better life soon began embarking upon this country in droves after Cook sent word back to the homeland of what a picturesque and habitable landscape this was, and these Europeans were rightfully impressed by what they saw. Not only the regimes of Maori warfare, but also their commitment to family and tribe, their advanced irrigation systems, their techniques for dealing with unpredictable weather conditions, and their early ideas and plans for tourism all garnered them the admiration of the settlers, this "uncivilised" nation taught invading white faces, for the first time in colonial history, what it really meant to be a civilian.
This was the first country in the world, where from day one, irrespective of race or religion, all men over the age of 21 were entitled to a democratic vote. It is also the first country that granted the vote to women. The year of 1840 saw the writing of a crucial historic document, The Treaty of Waitangi. This agreement was signed by the English dignitaries and ambassadors who had made the voyage out to the Southern hemisphere, as well as every chief from the 400 separate Maori tribes occupying New Zealand at that time. It decreed that this country would become part of the British empire, governed by English sovereignty, but the treaty similarly protected the Maoris' right to their country, stating that they would be the people who owned their land, it also gave Maoris the rights of British subjects. It was the first document of it's kind, the only written agreement in history which recognised the liberty of the indigenous race. It has been a subject of heated debate up until this present day, with many Maoris claiming that promises were not kept and using the Treaty as a legal document in which to reclaim land and money. For this reason the Waitangi Tribunal was established in 1975, to ensure the rules of this paper are adhered to and to take on any cases in dispute.
Compare this to the colonisation of Australia, where until 1970, Aborigines were not legally defined as human beings. Quite dramatically different stories I think you'll agree. In the 1860's, when a handful of Maori tribes decided they wanted rid of the settlers, the majority of Maoris fought side by side with the Europeans to quell the oncoming rebellion. And this is how it has been until this day, descendants of European settlers and Maoris, side by side, living, working, playing, celebrating their history together.
This causes me some sadness as I sit here and ponder on this now. What ills and atrocities in our world may have been averted if people had always shown each other such mutual compassion and respect? New Zealand just proves that it was possible, possible for England to expand her empire without the devastation to innocent people. Things could have been so different, the world could be so much better for the millions of human beings living under 3rd World classification today had their civil liberties not been so hastily and contemptuously removed from them. These wrong doings feel all the more painfully acute to me knowing that they were avoidable.
We arrived in Rotorua this afternoon to be greeted by hills of sublime rainforest greenery, gargantuan clouds of steam rising from the countryside in thick, fluffy white towers, landscape dotted with dozens of natural hot pools and the smell of sulphur, potent and odiously prevalent on every molecule of air - it's the capital of Volcanic geo-thermal activity. Tonight we have been on a Maori heritage trip to the Tamaki Village; a community of huts in the midst of the forest about 20 minutes outside of Rotorua town that is set up to precisely resemble a Maori settlement as it would have been before the colonisers arrived. We were entertained with music and dancing, taught about their culture, weapons and living conditions, fed a veritable feast of roasted meat and vegetables cooked in a Hangi - an underground oven - and treated to a performance of the Hakka.
Huge Maori men wearing grass skirts and facial tattoos, and carrying foot long machetes, chanted and stamped, grimaced and gurned, waggling their tongues and protruding their eyeballs in a traditional demonstration of how rival tribes would greet each other - showcasing their ferocity and hopefully striking fear in to the hearts of any possible enemy. The threat that this dance carries would not be followed through however if the invaders signify that they are well intentioned visitors. After the Hakka a leaf is placed on the floor between the opposing sides and a member of our group was instructed to walk slowly forward and pick up the offering; a sign of a peaceful guest. If this ritual was carried through you would be, as we were tonight, welcomed in to the arms of the tribe with warmth and laughter and kindness.
I come from a country of conquerors, of settlers and invaders, explorers and militia, sailors and governors, the Great British Empire. The Great, but not the Good. Goodness is what matters to me, and how I wish I could say that I am descended from people who more often than they did, put down their hatred, and picked up the leaf.
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