Memories of my Father...

My father was a baker. He sold the bakery when I was still young, when the grocery store in my village began to bring-in factory-made bread in plastic bags that my father at once dreaded and feared. “How can people keep bread in the fridge?” he’d say. “And how can it keep for weeks? That city bread didn’t have holes in it either!”

Well, now people understand why and want to return to REAL bread, crusty outside, tender inside, with no preservatives… To the wonderful smell of fresh bread coming out of the oven, which you could smell all over my village every morning. But alas, the bakery has been turned into apartments, and I can’t imagine what happened to the immense wood-fired oven that used to occupy half the bakery’s footprint.

As a little girl, I remember my father lifting me so I could peer down into the oven’s bottomless cavity. I could never see the end of it… Just the boundless black hole that could bake 100 loaves of bread at once.

My father made 300 loaves of bread a day in three batches, all mixed by hand on a thick wooden table that nearly occupied the other half of the bakery, save for a walking corridor all around it and a bit more room at the entrance. That table had to have been built on site. I think it must have been easily 10 feet wide by 20 or more long and would be worth a fortune today.

The oven was all brick. I remember it was fed with huge pieces of wood through an outside cavity at the back of the building while the oven itself had its door facing that massive table on the inside.

My dad would get up every day around 3:30 am to fire-up the oven. He would then mix his dough and let it rise while the oven got warm. And when the last batch was done at mid-day, the oven would remain wonderfully warm ’til diner time. My father thought that was such a waste that he invited the townsfolk to bring their slow-cooking dinners to bake during the afternoon in the otherwise lost heat of the oven, thereby providing a hub of congeniality and social interaction right there, in the tiny front entrance of his village bakery.

I will never forget the bakery. It was more than a place where bread was made—it was where the day began, where the scent of crust and ash wrapped around the village like a morning shawl. I have always wished that I could rebuild it one day and give back to the town not just the bread, but the depth of culture we lost to modernization.

En espagnol

Memorias de mi padre

Mi padre era panadero. Vendió la panadería cuando aún era pequeña, cuando la tienda de comestibles de mi pueblo comenzó a traer pan industrial en bolsas de plástico, algo que mi padre temía y odiaba al instante. “¿Cómo puede la gente guardar el pan en la nevera?” decía. “¿Y cómo puede durar semanas? ¡Ese pan de la ciudad ni siquiera tiene agujeros!”

Bueno, ahora la gente entiende por qué y quiere regresar al PAN REAL, crujiente por fuera, tierno por dentro, sin conservantes… Al maravilloso olor del pan recién horneado que se podía percibir por todo el pueblo cada mañana. Pero, ay, la panadería ha sido convertida en apartamentos, y no puedo imaginar qué ocurrió con el enorme horno de leña que ocupaba la mitad del espacio de la panadería.

Cuando era niña, recuerdo a mi padre levantándome para que pudiera mirar dentro de la cavidad sin fondo del horno. Nunca pude ver su final… Solo ese agujero negro ilimitado que podía hornear 100 panes de una vez.

Mi padre hacía 300 panes al día en tres lotes, todos mezclados a mano sobre una gruesa mesa de madera que ocupaba casi la otra mitad de la panadería, excepto por un pasillo alrededor de ella y un poco más de espacio en la entrada. Esa mesa tuvo que haber sido construida en el lugar. Creo que debió medir fácilmente 3 metros de ancho por 6 o más de largo, y hoy valdría una fortuna.

El horno era completamente de ladrillo. Recuerdo que se alimentaba con grandes trozos de madera a través de una cavidad exterior en la parte trasera del edificio, mientras que el horno mismo tenía su puerta frente a esa mesa enorme por dentro.

Mi padre se levantaba todos los días alrededor de las 3:30 a.m. para encender el horno. Luego mezclaba la masa y la dejaba reposar mientras el horno se calentaba. Y cuando el último lote estaba listo a mediodía, el horno permanecía maravillosamente cálido hasta la hora de la cena. Mi padre pensaba que eso era un desperdicio, así que invitaba a la gente del pueblo a traer sus cenas para cocinarlas lentamente durante la tarde en el calor restante del horno, creando así un punto de encuentro y socialización justo allí, en la pequeña entrada de su panadería.

Nunca olvidaré la panadería. Era más que un lugar donde se hacía pan; era donde comenzaba el día, donde el olor a corteza y ceniza envolvía al pueblo como un chal matutino. Siempre he deseado poder reconstruirla algún día y devolverle al pueblo no solo el pan, sino la profundidad de la cultura que perdimos con la modernización.

En français

Souvenirs de mon père

Mon père était boulanger. Il a vendu la boulangerie quand j'étais encore jeune, lorsque l'épicerie de mon village a commencé à vendre du pain industriel en sacs plastiques, un pain que mon père à la fois redoutait et détestait. "Comment les gens peuvent-ils garder le pain au réfrigérateur ?" disait-il. "Et comment peut-il durer des semaines ? Ce pain de ville n'a même pas de trous !"

Eh bien, maintenant les gens comprennent pourquoi et veulent revenir au VRAI pain, croustillant à l'extérieur, tendre à l'intérieur, sans conservateurs… À l'odeur merveilleuse du pain frais qui sortait du four et que l'on pouvait sentir dans tout le village chaque matin. Mais hélas, la boulangerie a été transformée en appartements et je n'arrive pas à imaginer ce qu'il est advenu de l'immense four à bois qui occupait la moitié de la boulangerie.

Quand j'étais petite, je me souviens que mon père me soulevait pour que je puisse regarder dans la cavité sans fond du four. Je n'ai jamais pu en voir le fond… Juste ce trou noir sans fin qui pouvait cuire 100 pains à la fois.

Mon père faisait 300 pains par jour en trois lots, tous mélangés à la main sur une épaisse table en bois qui occupait presque l'autre moitié de la boulangerie, à l'exception d'un couloir tout autour et un peu plus d'espace à l'entrée. Cette table devait avoir été construite sur place. Je pense qu'elle mesurait facilement 3 mètres de large pour 6 ou plus de long et serait aujourd'hui d'une grande valeur.

Le four était entièrement en briques. Je me souviens qu'il était alimenté avec de gros morceaux de bois par une cavité extérieure à l'arrière du bâtiment, tandis que la porte du four se trouvait face à cette immense table à l'intérieur.

Mon père se levait tous les jours vers 3h30 du matin pour allumer le four. Il mélangeait ensuite sa pâte et la laissait lever pendant que le four chauffait. Et lorsque le dernier lot était prêt vers midi, le four restait merveilleusement chaud jusqu'à l'heure du dîner. Mon père trouvait cela gaspilleux, alors il invitait les habitants du village à apporter leurs plats cuisinés lentement pour les cuire dans la chaleur restante du four, créant ainsi un centre de convivialité et d'interaction sociale juste là, dans la petite entrée de sa boulangerie.

Je n'oublierai jamais la boulangerie. Ce n'était pas seulement un endroit où l'on faisait du pain, c'était là que la journée commençait, où l'odeur de la croûte et de la cendre enveloppait le village comme un châle du matin. J'ai toujours souhaité pouvoir la reconstruire un jour et rendre au village non seulement le pain, mais la profondeur de la culture que nous avons perdue avec la modernisation.

Why are women so complacent?

Most women are keenly aware of the challenges that traditional shopping represents. Women unjustly have the reputation of "spending hours in the stores" only because their shopping experience is designed to keep them lingering there. Take for example shopping for bras: Whereas it would be easiest if these were stored in boxes by size and colour with just one of each colour on display, these are out by the thousands in endless tangled webs of hangers and straps, leaving women exhausted and frustrated. Mostly, after going through the lot, one finds that the popular sizes are missing. And forget about going back to buy a bra you previously bought and liked - you'll likely be told that that was "seasonal" stock, meaning that once the stock is exhausted, a new style will be produced to replace it, leaving you again in the position of detangling and trying on dozens. You can't escape this endless frustration. You have to try everything on because there is no telling how each will fit. The fabrics and styles vary so much that each item of clothing, bra or other, will fit differently, even within a brand. You can't just buy a brand in "your" size within a brand you have worn before, no, that would be too efficient! Everything to do with shopping for women's clothes is conjured up to keep us IN the store as long as possible. There is not a woman I know who doesn't identify with these frustrations.

The same is true of all other clothing from shirts to skirts. Sizes have nothing to do with physical measurements, vary from garment to garment and brand to brand, country to country. NO woman I know doesn't have something better to do than to spend a whole day trying to find a skirt or a blouse that actually fits her. If a skirt is long enough and not indecently tight around the hips, it will undoubtedly be loose around the waist. Don't even think about custom fit! Adjustments? Seem allowances? Hemming? Not for us!

Women, who statistically represent 51% of the population at birth (and considerably more later in life), are abominably ill-served by the clothing industry. What wouldn't I give to have on offer what a man has who can walk into a store and ask for a shirt that is 15 1/2" around the neck, 33" in the sleeve, 100% cotton, in a specific colour and still have the choice between a fitted or ample cut! Can you imagine a skirt that comes in "Short", "Average" and "Long", with waist and hip measurements in inches, that can still be hemmed exactly as long as you'd like it?

Men come in all shapes and sizes, as women do, but are never made to feel inadequate if their arms are long or if they have a little pot. Quite the contrary, good men's shops pride themselves in being able to accommodate all men gracefully. Because they do, men generally feel comfortable as they are. If the shop can't fit them, the shop is inadequate, not the man. There is something to say about the message transmitted to men here: that their time and money are valuable and respected and that not being average in proportions is normal.

Men never have to compromise on fit or quality. Bottom line: men look (and feel) terrific regardless of their body peculiarities. Men's shops have tailors that custom fit the clothes they buy. When men buy a suit, it not only fits perfectly but looks good for years to come. It's money well spent. An actual investment! They didn't have to starve themselves to fit limited sized off-the rack clothes in pre-determined "ideal" proportions that the fashion industry dictates to their women counterpart. While women have tons of clothing choices, (designed of course to keep them fumbling endlessly in the stores,) clothing quality is lower and nothing is ever properly fitted or lasts long which drives us right back into the stores for the never ending quest to find something good to wear. Women's clothes are cheaply made, more often than not in synthetic fabrics, with no seam allowances. They may cost less but will not last and will quickly find their way to the give away pile. Buying clothing for us is a long string of stresses, compromises and disatisfaction, and worst of all, we are conditioned to blame ourselves for the shortcomings of the fashion industry. Something must be wrong with us if we spend too much time and money on clothes! If we can never find what we need among the millions of options on offer! If the clothes we buy look and fit so poorly!

Bottom line: women have less disposable income yet are cornered by the clothing industry into buying ill fitting, cheap clothes in an endless quest to look forever young and fashionable. What's the point of buying a quality jacket, boots, when next year's style will have an extra strap or whatever that will make yours look like last year's? And who would ever want that? Better of course to buy something cheap with just the right number of straps every few months.

The resources required of women to comply to the standards that our society defines as appropriate for us are enormous, if not all-consuming. Unlike men, women are judged by their youthfulness, and to look forever young, women are pressured into the fashion rollercoaster: she must have sexy hair, be manicured, pedicured, made-up, slinky bodied etc. These goals require hours of time and most of women's financial resources. Amazingly, while every possible machination is put in her way to success, women will often be criticized if they are unable to focus as much as their male counterpart at work. Women are often accused of being insatiable shoppers, fickle and shallow. The truth is that women are plagued by a sense of perpetual inadequacy, much of it propelled by societal pressures largely facilitated by the fashion industry.

Women are still valued as sex object today as always, and they accept this role all too complacently. As women, we comply to the most unrealistic whims of fashion and we accept the exhorbitent demands made on our resources for this conformity. Much has been done in recent decades to change this but just when women begin to develop the strength and understanding to resist, out come the powers that push her right back into enslavement. Few men ever have to worry about such pressures on their way to the big boys club. Few men ever have to compromise their mental and financial health or to relinquish their time resources to such superficialites. And everything is done to accommodate their needs in this regard. Everything men do is focused on how precious their resources are. They expect and demand service and quality efficencies that translate into economies of time and money. They would not have it any other way. Why should we?

Is it any wonder that so many young women everywhere, confronted with the pressure to conform to the most unattainable weight and body measurements, suffer from varying forms of anorexia? For most women, dieting is a way of life from the early teens (another muti-million dollar industry thriving at our expense) while reaching the ideal form is generally unatainable. This conditioning is deeply damaging and erodes the confidence of the most resilient among us. Short of blaming a conspiracy to keep women down, one must at least acknowledge the seriousness of the problem and as women, undertake to help ourselves and get off this threadmill.

The world of fashion is a huge bottomless pit that sucks women down and swallows them whole. It gobbles up all their resources and leaves them with an insatiable need to comply to unattainable and forever changing goals. To surrender to the demands of fashion is to surrender body and soul into slavery.

It's enough to start a revolution! Why are women so complacent?

My Grandmother

My maternal grandmother died in the Fall of 1929. She was 36 years old. My mother was three. I know of her through hearsay. She was a beautiful young woman when she married. She wore her shiny dark hair long, tied in a bun as was the fashion then. Her dark wedding dress was elegant, in a Victorian sort of way. The picture I have of her on her wedding day is the only one that exists of her other than the one on her mortuary card. Anyone seeing those two photos would never guess it was the same woman. By the time she died, some twelve years into the marriage, she had aged. Her beautiful hair was now short and cut bluntly as though by her own hand. Her dress tattered and worn. It was in the depression years. She had had 8 children, not counting stillborns and early deaths, and was pregnant again when she died. I often wondered what she would have said had she been able to blog in her days. How I wish I could read her today.

I know that my Grandfather and her were very much in love but times were hard and pregnancy which was difficult to prevent, was very hard on her. Life on the farm became increasingly demanding. There were so many children to care for and farm hands to feed. Rumours have it that the farm was frequented by so many people, all seeking the understanding, the comforting ear of my grandmother. Even as a young woman, she was kind and wise. Her name was Martine.

I love her and she is missed, even by those who never knew her. My Grandfather only remarried when all the children were raised and settled and he once said to my father that his first love was the greatest and could never be matched. He was of Irish extraction. She, French. He learned French for her and never spoke English in her presence, even in the company of his Irish friends. He really loved her. I know that. If she could have blogged, if she had had the leisure time we have to do that today, she would doubtlessly have spoken of her love for him, I know that. She might have told us about raising her children, of her dreams for them, of her longings, her passions, her political views. As it is I can only imaging these. I like to think that she was bright and optimistic, that she read everything she could, that she believed in education, that she was a stable force whose wise opinions were sought. Above all she was a loving, giving person.

The farm and the house where my mother was born still stand. Every year lately I have gone there to join my mother, now 82 and to sleep there. I am privileged to sleep in my grandmother's bedroom. I feel amazingly comfortable in that house though it is small and basic by today's standards. The view from my bedroom window over the hill to the river below is breathtaking. The air is good! Or is it the good vibes? Surrounded by tall pine trees, misty in the mornings, utterly peaceful... I feel wrapped in my Grandmother's kindness, her happiness to see me there, in the harmony she impaled on this magnificent place. She lives on in all of us still today.

The Getty Museum, Los Angeles.
� Diane Richard
There are places I've been where it is hard to take a bad picture. The Getty is such a place. And whereas it is easy to take stunning photos of The Getty, it is impossible to capture the whole. But beauty is found in small things also. Here a group of cacti taken at sunset at the Getty which, by its colours, contrasts and textures, offers a glipse of The Getty, in its own way.

Phi Phi Island, Thailand.

Long Boat, Phi Phi Island, Thailand.
� Diane Richard

There are countless times that I have gone back to Phi Phi in thought, this place lost in time and so peaceful where I spent two weeks, just two years, almost to the day, before the Island was swept by the Great Tsunami.

It is in this place, after four weeks of travel from Singapore to Malacca, through Malaysia, that I finally found rest - rest of the deepest, most satisfying kind.

It is in this place that I met and photographed people, cats, dogs and roosters. After two weeks, I felt that I knew everyone. I saw its ocean at rest, more calm and gentle than ever I saw the sea...



I ache to think that so few survived.

Phi Phi will never be the same without them.

Rum Point, Cayman Islands.

When I was first in Grand Cayman Island, the Goverment of the Cayman Islands was just beginning to focus on tourism as a way to develop and to improve the living standards of the population. That proved to be excellent planning. The Cayman Islands are truly the most beautiful of the Carribean and over the years, visitors would pay dearly for the privilege of experiencing its silky sand and gentle beaches.

At the beginning, Caymanians were all employed in the service industries required to support tourism. Service jobs were better than no jobs. Their children however, went to universities in the US and those that returned came back as financiers and administrators... Today, the Caymans hire students from abroad (mostly Canada) to fill the many service jobs in restaurants and shops. The student are happy. If you're going to wait, might as well be in paradise! And the Caymanians have achieved what they set out to do, in a single generation.

Grand Cayman is now a well developped community with good roads, fine shops and well stocked grocery stores. The cost of living is high and the seven mile beach is no longer as peaceful as it once was. Just like Niagara Falls is nice in Winter, so are the Caymans in the Fall, their off season.

Niagara Falls in Winter.

Niagara Falls in Winter.

Few think of visiting The Falls in winter yet it is a breathtaking experience to visit when is is coldest and the thundering water freezes mid-stream forming twinkling icycles. In Summer, the area is so thick with viewers that one often has to fight one's way to a view. In Winter the spectacle is all yours.

The Seal Hunt Shame.

There are no photos today, as this is a day of shame, sorrow and mourning for all Canadians.
As our Prime Minister, newly elected Steven Harper, lightly dismisses the seal hunt as "a bit of bad publicity" against Canada the rest of the world, including most Canadians, are appalled and painfully observing the massacre, their hands tied behind their backs.

How can we Canadians stand as the great peacekeepers of the world and allow such violence at home? What has gone so wrong with our democracy that our government condones acts that repulse the great majority of Canadians in effect rendering us victims of ourselves?

In a truly democratic society, the government is but a society's executive arm that puts into effect our wishes. And what kind of society do Canadians want? A peaceful, rational, open and free society, by all accounts. We cannot have the right arm engaged in peacekeeping while the left is clubbing baby animals.

While the market for fur is dwindling all over the world, (Will anyone really still conscientiously wear seal fur?) the Canadian Government, our left arm, is busy funding the development of seal fur markets (http://www.fishaq.gov.nl.ca/fdp/ProjectReports/fdp_122-241.pdf ) and research on establishing the health benefits of ingesting seal oil to capitalize on the blind and frenzied alternative health market (http://www.fishaq.gov.nl.ca/FDP/ProjectReports/fdp_204.htm ), under the Fisheries Diversification Program. (http://www.releases.gov.nl.ca/releases/2001/fishaq/1130n01.htm )
I wonder what part of the 10 million dollars allocated to this portion of the Economic Agreement between Canada and Newfoundland has been allocated to these two projects and others, designed to further develop the exploitation of seals?

There are those who believe that seals are the cause of the depletion of our cod stocks. To those I say: The seals were there when the white man first appeared on our shores and these very men reported that the waters were thick with cod then. The seals and the cod were cohabitating harmoniously for thousands of years before we arrived. The nasty predator has been man who commercializes and exploits everything to exhaustion. By the time our Government began to limit cod fishing within our off shore territory, the cod stock was already so badly depleted that it is now said to be beyond recovery.

The seals eat cod as the lion eats antelope but neither has ever over hunted for pleasure, for trophy or for fur. Man alone has done this and man alone is the cause of the extinction of so many species, through greed and wreckless behaviour.

Yes, we kill cows and chicken to eat and much has been exposed there to put doubt about the way this is done. However, the great majority of seal that are killed are babies killed for their fur, their skinned bodies tossed back into the sea. Wearing fur today, unless you are an Inuit living in the Great North, is absurd and barbaric. Can you see the blood pouring from these coats?

We are making a spectacle of ourselves by allowing this massacre year after year and by not demonstrating the willingness (or ability) to adopt more civilized pursuits. If multiculturalism, tolerance and pacifism are a reflection of who we are, allowing the mindless, uncivilized hunt of baby seals goes against what we believe is right in our hearts.

It is time for us to stand together against what our government is doing in our name. It is time for us to fund true diversification, away from seal hunting to activities that better represent our civilization and us. Would not our money be better used to fund the development of tourism around the birth of the seals, such a magnificent celebration of life?

The Two Sides of Fiji.

I took this picture of surface coral in Fiji last year. Fiji is a land of surprises like most places if you look a bit beyond what the guidebooks would have you do. This is an excerpt of my first impressions as I wrote about them while I was there.


I was a passenger in a car with Girish and another man. We were going somewhere together. At one point I found myself at a gas station. We were lining up to get gas and when we got to the pump for some reason we got out of the car and I lost sight of my friends. Confused, I got into another car lining up to get gas but kept looking for Girish. When we got to the pump I got out of the strange car, still looking, now desperately, for Girish. Kept looking until I was all by myself in the middle of the tarmac and there were no more cars. Nobody there but me.

I was terrified and decided that I had better start walking and find a place to stay. It was about 4pm. When I started walking, I realized that I had absolutely no idea where I was. None of the street names were familiar. I didn't even know what city I was in. I was horrified. How could I get myself into such a mess? I felt pangs of guilt invading me. How could I not take better care of myself?

What had happened? I tried to recollect the past few minutes. It seemed that there was a huge gap in my memory. I did not remember how I got away from Girish and didn't know how I found myself alone at the gas station. Maybe something had happened to all three of us? We got separated… Maybe I was unconscious for a while. As the synapses in my brain started to click, I frantically opened my handbag. There was no money, no identification, no credit cards. How could I stay in a hotel, even if I found one? How could I convince anyone of who I was? Moments seemed like eternal time as I felt the intense gravity of my predicament. Eventually I saw two policemen. I went to talk to them but I couldn't get myself to tell them what had happened. With no ID, and appearing confused, who knows what they'd do with me. I couldn't trust them with the truth. I asked them which city we were in. They uttered a name that I had never heard of. I got the impression that it was a very small place. That only made things worse for me as I thought it would be that much harder to get someone to help. I was lost… I had no memory of the events that had brought me here. There was a huge hollowness in my gut like a piece of my life was missing and I couldn't prove who I was. I felt destitute.

I have friends who believe in the meaning of dreams, that is, that dreams say something about your state of mind... That thoughts too dreadful to handle in one's awakened state are digested and analysed in the dream state... This dream, which I had during my stay in Fiji, should tell you something about my state of mind and my overwhelming sense of vulnerability while I was there, a situation which I had difficulty admitting to myself in my waking hours. Here are some of the entries from my journal:

Fiji is hot and extremely humid, the kind of weather that makes your skin wet and cool to the touch, your clothes stick to your back and makes one long for a never-ending shower, the kind of weather that makes the air thin and every breath a seemingly fruitless effort.

I arrived at 10pm and had a reservation at The Sheraton Resort, Denarau Island, for one night. The Sheraton has a “Meet and Greet” service at the airport. I asked for it and was directed toward a woman in a traditional two-piece floral dress, who welcomed me and then matched me up with a taxi driver whom she said I should pay $22FD. When I got to the cab, the driver opened the door to the front seat for me. Although I felt somewhat uncomfortable sitting in front, I thought that it might be customary to do that in Fiji and that I might offend him by declining so I got in the front seat as directed.

The driver was friendly and informative. He did however seem somewhat inclined to tap me on the shoulder during the conversation, which I felt uncomfortable about, but again, thought this must be the local way. He did take me to my destination safely and gave me his card with directions to call him if I needed a taxi during my stay.

Denarau Island is a large, man-made island near Nadi Airport (pronounced Nandi by the locals), which is the exclusive domain of Sheraton and holds at least three separate Sheraton Resorts of different calibers. I was staying at the most modest one, yet this was an expensive hotel and I would only stay there because others less glamorous were booked for the night of January 1.

The room I was assigned seemed ordinary enough, quite some ways from the open style reception area and one flight up from ground level. No elevators! Need I remind you that it was hot and muggy, even at this late hour? The hot air had hit me like a wave the moment I had stepped off the plane. Not that I had to carry my luggage or even walk much to get to my room – a very tall husky porter was accompanying me there aided by a silent electric cart that he drove through a meander of covered walkways and gardens until finally it stopped at the foot of a set of winding stairs leading to the floor above where my room was. The porter carried both of my suitcases up, one in each hand, as if they were feather light - the very luggage that I had myself struggled with over the last month! Next to him, even my large suitcase seemed small. I could barely believe my eyes.

The room was lit and cooled in expectation of my arrival, which was most welcome as I could feel the sweat running down my back, just getting myself there. My porter, dressed in wrap around knee length skirt and black sandals, seemed perfectly cool and composed having done all the work. The room was tiled, a king-size bed on the right of the door and windows on the far wall, bathroom on the left. The porter left.

At first glance, the room’s colour scheme, hot prints and stark walls, seemed somewhat outdated but as I approached the glazed wall and peaked through the closed wooden blinds, I saw that there was actually a balcony there. When I opened the door to it, I realized that my room was more special than it first appeared. The ocean lay there, just in front of me. I could see the waves lapping the shore, lit by perfectly positioned spots. I could hear the rhythmic sound of the waves. I thought of how nice it would be to leave that door open all night and let the sound rock me to sleep but that thought was tempered by the extreme outside heat and humidity and further by a warning sign on the desk that doors should be kept locked, leaving me to feel that sleeping with wide open doors would invite more risk than I was prepared to take. I closed the door.
 and went to bed, exhausted from ..

January 2nd, 2005.

I awoke with the sun gently piercing through the shutters left open the previous evening. I did not get up right away. Instead, I allowed myself to drift in and out of sleep gently, enjoying this luxurious morning, which I did not expect would be repeated for some time. Today I would leave Denarau and venture to Saweni where accommodations of a lesser kind were awaiting. I had no idea what to expect but was determined to go there with a positive attitude.

I got my things together, had a nice bath and went out on the beach for a couple of hours. The water looked good but a sign on the beach was not encouraging: “Beware of sea life!" I took my sandals off and tested the waters. It was really warm but I was not compelled to jump in having read that sign. Instead, I left my sandals on the sea wall and continued walking on the wet sand along the water’s edge. At the far end and inland a bit, there was a lovely chapel and I started walking toward it not realizing how hot the sand was away from the water. Ouch! I ran for some greenery to step on and barely made it back to the wet area. The bottoms of my feet were hurting and I was sure I had blisters.

Walking back, I stopped at the Sheraton's beach side restaurant and treated myself to lunch: $25 for a toasted chicken/sweet squash? sandwich, a glass of milk and a fruit salad topped with coconut ice cream. The chicken was tough and the combination of squash and chicken was a tad strange but I was hungry. From experience, I’ve learned to be thankful for what I had and to know that the next meal could be a whole lot worse.

I checked out at three in the afternoon, a privilege I had negotiated long and hard for that morning, and proceeded to wait at reception for Mala, the taxi driver that had brought me there from the airport the previous evening. I had called him that morning and arranged to be brought to Saweni. He was a bit late getting there and as I had been waiting for a while, one of the hotel attendants asked me whom I was waiting for. I produced the business card Mala had given me. “Ahh yes, Mala!” It was comforting to know that he was known there. Just about then Mala appeared in a different vehicle than the one he had had the previous evening. Good thing he recognized me. I don’t think I could have, especially with a different car.

Mala loaded my luggage and we left the Sheraton. This time I slipped into the rear right at the hotel and felt much better. Mala explained that he had come with this particular vehicle “to have a better chance”. I gathered from this statement that to pick up someone from the Sheraton, one must be part of a specific company. That happens. I thought little of it. We arranged for a tour the next day: 9am to noon for $70FD.

Within minutes of our leaving the Sheraton, Mala announced that his brother was meeting him with another car and would take me the rest of the way. Mala must have borrowed the first vehicle just to pick me up. The whole thing felt very “unofficial”. In a moment the brother was there, I was introduced, the luggage was moved and off we were to Saweni.

The road from The Sheraton to Saweni offered varied surprises. It was obvious that the island refuge occupied by The Sheraton was under strick security. On the way out we passed an exclusive gated community with luxurious homes for sale between three and five hundred thousand dollars. Not long after, we were driving on a sparsely populated country road where long convoys of sugar cane laden trucks on their way to the sugar processing plant were spilling the loose ends of their cargo all over the road such that the debris was by far the most curious thing in view. Everywhere you looked the road was littered with lengths of brown bark-like material. Here and there a small-scale double rail was visible along the road. The driver explained what the bits on the road were and that the rails were used to transport sugar cane to the mill – they were not for passenger trains. Tall stacks gushing thick clouds of smoke were visible in the distance toward Lautoka, otherwise known as Sugar City.

The vegetation was thick and lush. Here and there, some signs of cultivation were evident, sugar cane being the most important planted crop but there didn’t seem to be much order to anything. The small houses threaded lightly, barely holding on to their small bit of land. Trees, wild and planted, were indistinguishable one from the other as they joined to overcome the built environment. The small bites man was taking, stealing from the jungle, the jungle was vengefully taking back just as fast.

Within a short distance, steep mountains appeared. I recognized the sleeping giant at the top and almost at the same moment the driver pointed it out to me. Where had I seen this before? I looked for the woman that I knew would be there but we already had a different perspective of the mountain by then and even the sleeping male himself was no longer visible. A little while longer and we veered off to the left and took a narrow dirt road, which I would surely have worried about if it were not clearly labeled “Saweni Beach Apartment Hotel” which is where I was going.

There were many vehicles coming our way and we had to squeeze dangerously to the left to allow them by. There were many people coming back from the beach, the driver said, Saweni being one of the very few free beaches on the Island and this being a holiday, many people had gone to the beach.

The road got quite rough and stony. The car we were in seemed to be rather poorly suited to such terrain but nevertheless we progressed forward with continuous rattles from the underbelly, until we finally arrived at the small ocean front beach which was still well occupied and overwhelmingly littered with the remains of picnics from more than just one holiday weekend, no doubt. We turned left again and there was Saweni Beach Hotel where I was to stay.

The taxi came to a stop in front of the open-air lobby. My suitcases were set down. The fare had been set to $25FD but the driver had no change for my $50 and neither did the receptionist. Since I had arranged earlier with the brother for a tour of the area the next morning, I suggested my change be applied as deposit. I wondered if Mala would show up the next day but he had honoured his commitment once already so I had no reason to doubt that he would do so again.

I registered at the desk and was escorted to my room. This time we walked through a covered walkway along a bank of half a dozen units to unit number 5. The man who had accompanied me to the room put the key through the lock but stepped aside to let me open the door. I did. My first impression was positive. What I saw was a large room, simply furnished but clean and unornamented, which is often better than overdone at least in my thinking. The man brought the luggage in and left. I ventured further and discovered a separate bedroom with a double bed and a bathroom with shower, toilet and sink.

The entire complex was built of concrete blocks, painted in yellow and white inside and orange outside. I had expected that from the pictures on the Internet. The windows were of the louvered type often used in the tropics although I can’t imagine why. They were all fully opened and the hot humid air was barely moving inside. I looked for the air conditioner which I had been promised. I found the unit in the bedroom, complete with a defective remote control device. I turned the unit on manually, shut all the louvers and the drapes to try to insulate the rooms as best I could to get them cooler. None of these louvered windows ever really close completely. Hard to believe that an air conditioner would be installed in a room that can’t really be sealed efficiently from the outdoors! It seems like such a waste but that’s what was there.

I proceeded to survey the cupboards to see what I had to work with. The kitchen was sparsely furnished as well but what was here was in good condition. There were more or less four of everything: four dinner plates, three side plates, four cups, three soup bowls, four knives, three forks and four each of soup and coffee spoons. There were also three pots and one frying pan, a set of cooking utensils and a very blunt kitchen knife. There were four tumblers and four wine glasses. Lastly there was a draining tray, dish washing detergent and a sponge, a kettle and a dead toaster. The kitchen appliances consisted of a two-element gas stove, no venting, a small refrigerator and a sink. I could work with that. Ahh, yes, and there were small ants on the counter top.

I started thinking that ants were an integral part of the environment in Fiji. There had been ants at the Sheraton, in my room as well - such small ants they are that I could not be quite sure that that’s what they were. I decided to wash down everything. I was taught that cleanliness is the way to an ant free kitchen. Besides, I would not want to be cooking without first making sure that what I used met my standards of cleanliness, the ants being the first clue that something must leave to be desired. I washed all the dishes, the pots, the counter top, shelves and drawers and went to bed satisfied that the problem would be taken care of, thanks to my meticulous and outstanding work.

January 3rd, 2005.

When I got up this morning there were just as many ants on the counter top as there had been upon my arrival.

On the evening of my arrival, having nothing to cook, I asked a lady at reception if there was a place nearby where I could eat an evening meal. She said everything was closed this being January 2nd but that she was the cook and she had chicken chop suey on the menu for that night. I said that would be fine. Later that evening I went there and sat down in the reception lobby as directed. It seemed I was the only one there for diner and she did not seem in any particular hurry to cook. I wondered if there was something I wasn’t doing right. Diner finally arrived and it didn’t look like chop suey in the least. Still I ate. The first few bites were edible but the first piece of chicken I got tasted off. I tried another. Same thing. I was hungry so I ate the rice and the onions and carrot but had to leave the bits of chicken. She had said it would be $7.50 but she only gave me 50 cents back from my $10. Again, I didn’t say anything but I certainly wouldn’t eat there again. I just prayed I wouldn’t be sick.

The taxi driver did come this morning. We went out together at 9am. I sat myself in the back seat before he could open the front door for me. We visited the Garden of The Sleeping Giant, the legacy of Canadian actor Raymond Burr who apparently vacationed in Fiji every year and had a passion for orchids. The driver stopped along the way for pictures of sugar cane workers.

The garden was set in a very tropical garden, some of it netted over to provide the rightly shaded and moist environment that orchids thrive on. We descended deeper and deeper into the forest by means of wooden walkways laid over the forest bed. There were orchids of all kinds growing out of concrete pots set into rock walls. It was a bit overwhelming. I felt again somewhat ill at ease being alone in this forest with a relatively unknown man. True there had been a formal admission to the grounds and someone knew we had gone in. The woman gatekeeper had sat with us for a few minutes and had delegated my driver as my guide. She seemed to know him and I assumed that he brought people there regularly. However, after a good half hour into the forest, when I asked him how far the path went and if it was circular, terminating where we had started off, he appeared not to know. I could feel my clothes sticking to my skin and hated him to put his hand on my shoulder, which seemed to be his habit. There are things that a woman feels intuitively and what I felt is that he would not need any prompting to get close to me – to put it mildly. I suggested we turn around and leave and we did.

On the way back we visited an Indian temple which was not very impressive but I nevertheless took a picture or two after which I was approached by a keeper of the grounds of sorts who pointed out that no pictures were allowed unless I made a donation. The Indian man who approached me spoke with what seemed to be an American accent. After prompting he admitted that his parents lived in the US. Hem! Capitalism at work? The temple has only been built for ten years, apparently moved from a more cyclone prone coastal area. There is another Indian Temple, which is older on the other side of Nadi. Perhaps that one would be more interesting?

On the way to the Garden of The Sleeping Giant, we also stopped in a Lautoka super market where I hoped to find basic food for my kitchen. That was a very disappointing experience. Lettuce here was $10 per kilo. Oranges, $5 per kilo. All meat and poultry was frozen, most unattractive and still very expensive. Pasta packages that would be 99 cents at home were $5.. Why would pasta be so expensive? Same with other carbs like cous cous. Muesli $8 and $9. Rice was only available in huge bags. Butter was $1.39! Bought that! Also bought a loaf of bread, a small pack of cookies for $1.39, a Christmas candle now discounted to 79 cents, non-refrigerated milk which tastes so so but that is all you’re going to find here, a jug of some kind of orange flavoured drink and a plastic container to store food away from the ants.

How on earth can people survive here? I know they grow bananas but man cannot survive on bananas alone! I asked the driver. People grow cassava and a couple of other root vegetables, some whose leaves are eaten as well. Potatoes don’t do well here – they rot in the ground. Some people keep goats. A whole goat sells for $200 to $300. No kidding! Petrol is $1.40 per litre. Second hand cars are $25,000 and up. My driver had asked for $70 for a 3-hour tour. Under the circumstances, I could not argue the price. The gas to run the car alone would have cost him a hefty sum and I doubt he owns the car so he likely had to pay a rental fee of some kind. Then there is his time, and like most of us, time is all he has.

Tonight I killed a huge cockroach in my bathroom. Last night there was a lizard in my towel and ants are still running on the kitchen counter despite all efforts. What more can I say? This is my Fiji so far. I am hot. I haven’t been to the beach yet other than at the Sheraton. Saweni beach has been busy and dirty so I haven’t bothered. It is unlikely that I will swim there. I am quite sure that the “Sea Life” the Sheraton warned about is a serious threat to safe swimming and I wouldn’t like to tempt the devil swimming in a relatively unsafe area alone.

Communication with the outside world is extremely expensive and virtually non-existing, as we know it. A $10 telephone card buys you three minutes to Canada. A short incoming call at the Sheraton cost $5.00 and this was not a collect call! There was no mention of Internet there. I have yet to see an Internet cafe anywhere although I am told that there are some in Nadi, which is affectionately known as the Jet-Set City by locals. There is no phone in my room at Saweni. There is a public phone at the front entrance, an ancient model that works more or less, assuming you are willing to speak rather loud and be overheard by whoever is there.

Tuesday, January 4, 2005.

Last night as I went to the bathroom, cautiously opening the door between my bedroom and the bathroom now, there was a monstrous cockroach on the ceiling. This one had to be 4 inches end to end. I grabbed the insecticide spray can left me at reception and just about fumigated myself to death trying to kill it. It was resilient but I got it in the end and dumped it down the toilet like the others. I was coughing and wheezing after I finished and worried that I might have caused myself as much harm as I did the cockroach. I closed the bathroom door, still dense with the deadly fog and did my best to go to sleep but all my senses were on high alert trying to avert one of the beasts crawling into bed with me.

January 5th, 2005.

This morning there was another cockroach nearly dead on the floor of the bedroom, near the bathroom door. Where DO they enter?

I look everywhere for little holes where pipes enter walls, around the toilet. Stuffed a couple of suspect crevices with tissue. But this last cockroach was in my bedroom! Did it crawl under the door of the bathroom, trying to escape the fumigated room? Although the windows are just louvered, they are screened and these monsters are way too large to get in that way. They used to crawl into our apartment from outside when I was in Africa, through a gap under the front door. The problem is I haven’t seen any of them in the main room yet, even when I worked late. Seems to me there must be a way to build things tight enough to prevent these damned things from coming in!

This morning I got up a bit later than usual. Late to bed, late to rise! After I got rid of the cockroach by the bathroom door I checked the kitchen for ants. Got rid of those and made coffee. I looked outside and a couple of very thin cows were mowing our lawn. It was already so hot. When I got outside, the woman that had cooked for me the first night was dispatching a man to chase them out of the yard. I decided to stroll on to check the grounds and the beach. Armed with my camera and coffee in hand, I went out and took a few pictures.

The Saweni Beach Hotel consists of a main building roughly 90 feet by twenty feet with two appendages, one on each flank, each with 6 apartments. The way the apartments are juxtaposed creates interesting angles, front porches and recesses where small trees are planted which actually receive natural light from above. Altogether a very simple but ingenious design. All is built of concrete blocks painted in a yellow and orange scheme.

The grounds are pleasant and must be some 10 acres along Saweni Beach but not including the ocean front itself. A barbed wire fences the grounds and it is not possible to walk directly to the beach without going around the fence and through the public entrance. There is a gate to the beach along our fence but it was padlocked when I was there.

Got to the beach eventually and took pictures there too. The grounds are aphauling. Even the water has garbage floating in it. When I got closer to the water a Dutch couple and a young man who claimed to be their friend greeted me. We chatted a bit about the place, the garbage and another beach they had gone to about 50 miles away that was cleaner. The friend, Shane, was a local who had just taken upon himself to help the couple get around it seemed and by his own admission, to save them from other locals set on taking advantage of tourists. He offered to take me to Nadi, if I wanted to go. When I asked how much it would cost, he insisted that I should not mention it. I accepted. He was to take the couple back and come back for me at 1pm. I had barely been out of my room for half an hour then and my fresh clothes were wet with perspiration. I don’t remember ever perspiring this much. I had about 45 minutes to get back to my room, shower and change again. I did that and met Shane back at the beach, in front of the little store.

On the way to Nadi, Shane explained that he was a computer programmer, trained in New Zealand and that he liked helping people because so many people had helped him when he was in New Zealand. He was very nice. We were riding an old closed van, which belonged to his boss. The rear was loaded with computer peripherals. On the way, it began to rain and eventually pour. The old van was taking water around the doors and the windshield in a serious way. I had to move a bit over toward him on the seat to avoid the streams of water dripping from everywhere. He apologized but all was fine and I was happy for the rain, which I thought would cool things down a bit. When we got to Nadi, he showed me an Internet cafe, where the attendant/owner was his friend and where usage was $3. per hour. It seemed like a reasonable price until I logged on and found that the connection was so slow the pages simply didn't load. I nevertheless did my e-mail, which took the whole hour. Shane wanted to test his hotmail address, which turned out to be closed because he had not logged into it for so long so we reopened it for him on my time. The bill ended up being $5. in total because after the first hour, the guy wanted to charge a per minute fee. The overtime was really Shane’s and I’m sure he saw that. Strange friend. Not going here again.

We then looked for a large duffel bag which I needed to pack the Australian wool blankets I had been hauling with such difficulty since I left Australia. I eventually bought one, a little too small for the purpose, but the best we could find. We also went to the supermarket where I bought some rice in a 2kg bag, better than what I had seen the day before. Finally I wanted to go to the ATM machine and Shane directed me there. Right next to the ATM there was also a moneychanger and I decided to change some US dollars instead of withdrawing from my account, which worked fine.

Coming out of there Shane said to me that the ATM machine had eaten his access card. He had wanted to withdraw cash to put gas in the car but now he wouldn’t be able to do that and therefore couldn’t take me back. There was the bus but as we talked about that, it was still raining cats and dogs and I would have to walk quite a distance on the dirt road from the turn off to Saweni Beach, which is where the bus would drop me. He said that he would be better to take me back. That was hard to refuse under the circumstances so I offered to put gas in the van for him. I gave him $20. which of course was not much more than he needed to get me home and back since gas was $1.60 a litre where he filled up. I think he was disappointed that his scheme didn't work. He did take me home safely and that was a blessing.

Shane wants me to act as a contact for him to import goods from Canada. He says that you can make a ton of money with used computer parts and used anything. Why used I asked? Because there is no import duty on used goods and duty is very high on new imports, making them impossible to buy. There is an insatiable market in Fiji for used goods of any kind. Now I see why the black duffel bag I bought yesterday had a broken zipper that had been hand mended. As it tuned out, it had been done just so the zipper would close, just to sell the bag. I had missed the repair in the shop. I had to mend it again myself to get it to hold. I hope it will last the trip. This bag was purchased in a normal shop in Nadi, not a second hand store but obviously the goods they sell here are all seconds that they import and fix to sell. That goes for cars, cell phones and clothes too. The business proposition from Shane is not something I would remotely consider but it does provide an insight into what is going on here.

The food situation is getting worse by the day. What can you make with rice, cheese and eggs? The worst dish I probably ever concocted. Only ate some of it because I wouldn’t sleep if I went to bed hungry.

Today a boy about ten years old, the son of a New Zealand couple I have just met, got bitten by a sea snake just on the edge of Saweni Beach while rinsing his feet off. A driver who just happened to be in the lobby ran to his car and revved the engine. I suggested they tie a turnkey on his leg. Sachi ran to the kitchen and returned with a dishtowel for that purpose. Just as the driver was leaving the boy’s father arrived from his room. He shouted to the driver: “I’ll follow you in my car!” And off the taxi went spinning its wheels in the gravel.

Later Jude, the boy’s mother arrived in the lobby and requested that somebody please tell her the truth. Were the snakes poisonous or not? Two locals insisted that they were not. I suggested otherwise based on my readings. Jude was obviously upset but that is no reason to keep the truth from her. Why is it that everyone seems so set on saying that there are no snakes in Fiji when there obviously are? Later reports from the father at the hospital said that the bite had been non-poisonous and that the boy would be fine. That is a blessing but I wouldn’t like that to have been me dashing off to a hospital, alone and fending for myself in a local hospital environment where conditions are appalling. My instinct tells me that the Ocean in these parts is not safe. No swimming here for me.

The Food situation is getting worse by the day. I cooked potatoes and carrots for diner. I had nothing else. Maybe tomorrow I will finally be able to go to the market and buy some chicken or fish and vegetables. It would be nice to be able to cook a proper meal once in a while considering that I have a kitchen and it doesn’t look like there’s much in the way of places to eat anywhere.

Wednesday, January 5, 2005.

Raining outside. Maybe I am the bearer of rain after all! Yesterday’s rain was apparently the first in a long time and the beginning of the rainy season here Shane said. The up side for this morning - no cockroach in the bathroom. The down side, no hot water for the shower. There hasn’t been any for me except on the first day. Surprisingly there is at the sink, and it’s practically boiling there. There are now very few ants in the kitchen but it only takes a few seconds before they come if there is so much as a tiny crumb left behind. Everything needs to be sealed and perfectly clean. There were a hundred around my honey jar and also around my butter container on another occasion, both of which were sealed and clean. It's like the ants can smell the honey through the glass! The only way to stay ahead of the insects is complete and relentless attention to detail. These are minor inconveniences all other things considered. It’s so hot and muggy that cool showers are actually a respite. I can run my computer and I have an air conditioning unit that works. I have to focus on the positive.

I feel myself sinking into a sort of stupor. My space feels like the only clean and safe place I can come to yet it is too far away from anything to use as a base to explore Fiji beyond Nadi and Lautoka. I feel afraid to leave having nowhere better to go. By the same token, I am in a position that prevents me from finding anything better. I don’t trust my belongings in the hands of anyone. The impression I have is that nothing is safe left unattended. I might like to leave the bulk of my luggage behind and travel light but will it be there when I return? A cruise around the islands might be nice but on the other hand, I am not even sure of the relative safety of such an undertaking in a place where everything is second hand and safety regulations are likely low priority. Out at sea, such things are not matters to take lightly. Communications are poor. I am traveling alone. It would be weeks before anyone found out there was something wrong. The down side of traveling alone is that you can’t take as many risks as if you were with others. The responsibility I felt toward keeping myself free from harm was overbearing. Out here no one will ever know that you disappeared until it's too late. I feel very vulnerable alone in Fiji. This is a place where crime is high. Everything I see and hear testifies to that. Even The Sheraton Resort, on its own island with security access still warned about locking balcony doors. Here the Saweni Beach Hotel has a security guard on duty all the time. There are four locks on my unit door, though one is broken. Shane was telling me yesterday that his laptop was stolen from his car and an Indian from Australia got away with twenty thousand dollars of his money, which he was unable to do anything about. That’s a lot of bad luck and probably a lot of stupidity on his part it seems but I certainly wouldn’t like to take unnecessary risks in these parts and end up in his position.

Thursday, January 6th, 2005.

Reserved a taxi and went to the market in Lautoka. Everyone wants to know if I'm traveling alone, if I'm married, where I'm staying, from the taxi drivers to the fishmongers! What a bloody pain. I can't even shop for vegetables without being eyed as a marriage prospect. I had a really tough time getting what I needed. I took a few pictures. Even here at the hotel, Sachi, an Indian woman, asked me the same questions. When I told her that I wasn't married and wasn't looking she carried on as if she hadn't heard.

“I know a good Indian man looking for a wife. He is 36 years old, a football player...”
“36! A bit young, don't you think?”
“Age is not an issue,” she continued. “He just wants a good woman.”
When I declined again she started, “I know another man, He’s in his fifties, never married, a good man…”

It looks like everyone in Fiji is looking for a foreigner to marry them and take them away. It is overwhelming. Even a teenager in the market wanted to marry me so I would take him to Canada. I now emphatically state that I am married and traveling with my husband who is just over there around the next corner, just for peace. Truth gets you nowhere.

Reserved a day trip Island Cruise to Malamala Island for tomorrow.

Friday, January 7th, 2005.

Had to get up before dawn today for the Early Bird trip to Malamala Island. A mini bus was picking four of us from here at 5:45am. I went to bed really early to make it and I was in the lobby on time. The bus was a little late. It was already so hot and when we got on the bus, the air conditioning wasn’t on and the windows, except for the driver’s were shut and could not be opened. We were going around different hotel picking up more people. The bus was getting so hot, I was near fainting. There was no air. Finally we ran out of seats and one of the attendants had to stand on the step of the bifold door on the side of the bus which meant that the door had to stay opened. That happened not a moment too soon. It was stifling, even at 6am!

We finally arrived at the port where our boat was waiting to take us away. It was a large, old boat with a lot of rust. I was thinking of the news item about a local ship that sank last year in these parts because of neglectful maintenance and crew. Nevertheless, we boarded and started off. The sun was relentless. Not a cloud in the sky.

The water along the way was dark blue. The wave patterns on the surface were like I had never seen before; smooth ripples that made the surface seem mirror like, impenetrable, opaque, thick. It was only when we got really close to Malamala Island that those characteristics changed to a more transparent and lighter blue colour. A light breakfast was served onboard. I got a few good shots on the way.

As we approached Malamala, the island’s sandy beach was apparent all around. Malamala is uninhabited but there are small shelters build there to provide shade for visitors as well as a place to prepare and eat the lunch that was included with our trip.

When we got to within a few hundred yards of the island, a smaller boat that we were pulling behind us went ahead with the food and drink supplies. We disembarked by means of a smaller boat as well which could motor to shore. We still had to get our shoes off and get our feet wet getting off. The sand that had appeared so beautiful at a distance was in fact mostly very coarse and there were many broken shells within it which made walking from the boat to dry land quite painful.

True to my resolution of the previous Wednesday, I had no intentions of swimming in those waters. Snorkeling to the coral reef was first on the schedule but I was far too frightened of the “sea life” to go. Others went.

The sun was literally cooking us alive. I had a long sleeved white linen shirt on and a full-length sarong to prevent sunburn, which I had managed to escape so far for all these weeks. Eventually, the sun was directly overhead and there was nowhere to go to be comfortable. Even the shelter where lunch would be served was an oven. I decided out of desperation to go to the outhouse and put my bathing suit on. I had brought it, just in case I changed my mind. It came to the point when I had to choose between dying roasted or bitten by a sea monster. I was beginning to consider the latter preferable. After I put my bathing suit on, I re-cloaked my white shirt and wrapped my towel around my waist so that my legs would be protected from the sun. I still thought that I might not put more than my feet in the water and that that would be enough to cool off. It wasn’t. The water was very warm. I removed the shirt and towel and kneeled into the water, still in the very shallow part of the beach. I submerged myself completely for a few minutes and felt relief from the intense heat. I got out, dried off and put my shirt and towel back on. Did that again one more time before lunch. It was truly a matter of survival. I did not get bitten by anything.

Lunch was good. There were salads, fried chicken and lamb as well as slices of fruit and unlimited drinks, including beer. Nevertheless, I think that by the time lunch was over, most of us had had all the energy sapped out of us by the intense heat and were happy to get back on the boat to go home. I couldn’t think of anything but the agony of the long journey back in this heat.

By the time we got back on the boat, the air was as still as could be and the sun was still pretty well directly overhead. People were scavenging for shade and there was little to be had. Clyde, a fellow guest at Saweni, was fanning his bride with makeshift fans. She, usually so jovial, was slipping into a coma. I was drenched head to toes. Most people looked sick. There was a woman, perhaps pregnant, who looked like she had abdominal pain and nausea. We had all eaten copiously and had been put on a rocking ship on the sea with ambient temperatures in the high 40’s C. What better recipe to make people sick. There was no air. That was the worst problem. To sit in the shade, one had to be pretty close to a wall, not out on the open deck. It was agony all the way back.

When we finally arrived, I was feeling quite sick. When I looked at myself in the mirror, my face was bright red. My nose felt like it was ready to fall off. I could feel the burn on the lower legs and, amazingly my shoulders, my back and my chest were red and swollen. How could I have got so burned? I had a long sleeved shirt on for all but ten minutes. I took a shower, as delicately as I could and applied some after sun lotion where I could. I then went to the lounge and asked one of the girls to put some cream on my back. I came back to my room, took three Tylenols, went to bed and slept for 14 hours.

Saturday, January 8th, 2005.

Spent this day recovering from my burns. Took vitamins and did all I could to stay cool. Jude and her husband, the couple from New Zealand who are next door to me, invited me to eat with them in the evening. I joined them. We had fish cooked on the grill. I was still suffering and had a tough time being social so I excused myself rather early and went to bed.

Sunday, January 9th, 2005.

Today was the highlight of my trip to Fiji. I visited a Fijian village nearby where I went to church. Jude had suggested I do that and she had arranged for someone to meet me there and accompany me. It was a young girl about 17 years old, Rose Marie or Rosie for short. She was a delightful young girl. Very well spoken and very attentive. I sat in their house while I waited for her to get ready for church. I met two of her cousins as well as her grandfather.

The house was simple. The living space, which is where I waited, was barely furnished. The floor was covered in a large grass mat on which people sat. Although there were a few isolated chairs in the room, I took my shoes off at the door and sat on the floor while I waited. This felt quite natural for me, as I actually love to take off my shoes and sit on the floor anytime.

When Rose Marie was ready we walked to the Methodist church in the middle of the village. The first call to the church had already happened just as I had arrived. I wished that I had recorded that but it was just ending so I couldn’t. The last call happened when Rose Marie and I were already in the church so I failed to record that as well.

We took off our shoes to enter the church. The service was to be in Fijian. In this church, the seats are segregated as follows: the children sit in the nave to the left of the altar, the choir, last to enter, sit on the right across from the children. The Grandfathers sit behind the children and the grandmothers, behind the choir. Then the women sit in the main aisle, on the right of the altar and the men, on the other side. There is a bench, or perhaps a few, at the very front of the men’s section, for visitors. This is where I sat, with Rose Marie who was kind enough to sit there with me. Otherwise I would have been alone there. There were no other visitors on this day.

Jude had said that the choir was wonderful. It was. I tried to record some of the singing without being conspicuous about it. There were also two baptisms for which a series of grass mats were brought in for the parents with their babies to stand on during the ceremony, which was incorporated with the service.

During the sermon, the minister was considerate enough to say a few sentences in English, which I knew were for my ears especially. That was very touching. At another point, someone else did the same thing and I felt very welcome.

The village center itself is a beautiful place. It is meticulously clean and the village seems very proud of it. Most if not all Fijians belong to the Methodist Church. This village is a popular tourist destination for two reasons. The first is that oral history has it that First Landing, where the village is located, is the spot where the first Fijians landed when they arrived on their boats. It is said that the ancestors came from the East Coast of Africa. Judging by the appearance of the Fijian, one would easily believe it. I wonder if there are similarities of language? The second reason is that First Landing is the village of the current President of Fiji. The President himself returns home regularly and his house sits in the middle of the village center. This is where other chiefs are received and have meetings related to state matters.

The Fijians are black. They consider themselves the original settlers of Fiji and have all the political power and own all the land. The people of Indian decent who live in Fiji were brought in to work. They have little status and no political power. While they often work the land, they have to lease it from a Fijian who, at the end of the lease, is free to raise the rent as he pleases, often to levels that force the tenant out in which case he and his family have to leave whatever leasehold improvements they have installed on the property while they were there. Such leasehold improvements might be a house, and fields carved out of the jungle at great cost, their whole livelyhood and much of the posessions they might have amassed during their stay. The prospects of enrichment is therefore non-existant for the Indians on Fiji. No one is rich in Fiji, but the Indians have it harder than hard.

Monday, January 9, 2005.

I am on my way to Nadi. I asked Imesh, the hotel's favourite taxi driver, to take me there today. He said he would come “after noon”. More specification could not be secured. I took a shower and went to the lobby by noon. He wasn’t there yet so I sat outside in the open air extension of the lobby. As usual, it is very hot and humidity must be 95%. Within minutes my body was shining with perspiration. Drops of moisture were forming on my wrists and hands as if I had failed to dry them after washing. The sleeveless white dress I was wearing, fresh just minutes ago, was already sticking to my back. How much can humans bear, I thought? It seems to be a mind over matter thing here. No one talks about the heat. You never hear how many degrees it is. No one asks. Being constantly wet is the accepted state of things. People seem to go about their daily affairs, oblivious to the drips of sweat and the sticky clothes. As for me, I have come to the absolute conclusion that my body is unable to cope with such conditions. I get palpitations. It feels like there is no oxygen and I might faint at the slightest exertion. My skin burns at the slightest exposure. I don't appreciate having to share living quarters with lizards, cockroaches and other pestilence. I love swimming in the ocean but not where eels and snakes are omnipresent. I was bred for more moderate climates, for drier air, maybe even for snow. I need to live where going outside is not a trial but a pleasure. I am conceding that for some people, this climate is not as trying but I reverse-hibernate. I need to keep cool to survive, to function and to think.

The trip to Nadi was nice. Thanks to Imesh, I saw a little more than usual. I noticed for instance that there were some relatively nice shops on the street and when I walked past a bakery, the smell was so good that I bought latte and cheese cake for both of us. The cheese cake looked very appealing but it was actually a gelatin based one. Still, it was a nice little bakery with eager and happy staff. I also went to a much better Internet cafe where high speed was available @ $5. hour. I used a little longer than an hour and the additional time was pro-rated as it should be to $6.42.

After Nadi, Imesh took me to Vada Marina and to several public beaches in the area: New Town Beach, the place where people go “parking” and a couple of others. All of them were badly littered. Imesh said that litter bins, if installed, would immediately be stolen. How sad it is that with westernization comes so much that is negative. There never used to be foods in plastic packaging long ago. People in the villages didn’t drink Coke in plastic bottles then. They drank water out of calabashes, containers were of natural materials, wood, clay, and vegetable matter, all of which, if left behind, quickly returned to the earth without a trace.

If only the good reached these people as fast as the bad. Unfortunately, the coke finds its way here long before the comforts that technology can afford: clean water, electric power, roads and good transportation. The buses here are gushing out thick black fumes. The bulk of them are windowless with tarp hanging out in shreds on either side, the only protection, slight as it is, from the rains. I saw some very appealing rental car pamphlets from the familiar Budget et al, but heard said by a neighbour who had rented one that it was absolutely not road worthy and very expensive.

January 10, 2005.

Today I stayed in. There are only three more days before I leave late on the 13th. It has been nearly 7 weeks since I left home and I am actually looking forward to getting back. This is as it should be. Vacations in far away places often make one appreciate what one has. I would be first to leave Canada if I could find a better place but, as much as I have seen, I still haven't found a place to go to. 

Cuba, si!

Trinidad, Cuba.
I was only in Cuba for a short time but came back with a heartful of memories which, even if I was never to return, would last me a lifetime. Cuba is beautiful and fresh. Everyone will tell you that its beauty is largely its people, warm, genuine and good people.
Cuba has made giant strides toward the betterment of its people, despite virtually insurmountable challenges, particularly in the areas of education and health.
There is no illiteracy in Cuba and life expectancy is comparable to that of Canada.
While it is true that life is simple, farming techniques are antiquated and the average monthly income is about $20. US, it is also true that the people have a clear understanding that they are moving forward TOGETHER.

New Space: Blue Mountain

Blue Mountain, Australia.

Blue Mountain, about an hour east of Sydney is a World Heritage Site. I never expected to be so awed at its sight. Not only is it such a vast area but the land is covered with majestic ancient trees of which only the tops are visible. A few years ago a species of trees, contemporary of the dinosaurs and believed extinct, was discovered deep into the forest. These trees have survived largely because their isolated position has sheltered them from the ravages of the modern world. Their exact location is a closely guarded secret.

Turr Hunters or How To Kill a Fly With a Sledge Hammer.

Turr Hunters Hunted.
On Thursday, March 16th, 2006, an article appeared on the front page of the National Post entitled: "Three year investigation busts turr poaching ring".[1]
The story recounts that over a period of three years, 4 tiers of the Government including three undercover investigators and up to 18 officers from Environment Canada, the Department of Natural Resources, the RCMP and the Department of Fisheries and Oceans were involved in the process of the investigation and subsequent arrests of 9 people from Rose Blanche and Port-aux-Basques. Their firearms, ammunitions, boats and hunting tools were seized. Mr. George Allan Neil, 58 years old, was fined $5,000 and is under a 10-year ban from hunting. It was the largest investigation of its kind in Atlantic Canada.
It was believed that up to 1/3 of the estimated 400,000 birds killed each year were killed illegally. The investigation led to three men who ran the "lucrative" business. At the end of the 2004/2005 hunting season these men had sold approximately 1,000 birds.The men charged $2.50 to $4. per bird for a total between them of less than $4,000. For this money they provided all labour and equipment, hunted the birds, cleaned them and hand delivered them to their fellow Newfoundlanders, mostly locals who had moved into bigger centres, who didn't have the means to hunt for themselves and who had asked someone to do it for them.
Facts:
Turr is a seasonal delicacy in Newfoundland for which many indiginous recipes have been developed, one of which was published in The Post. Eating turr in season in Newfoundland has become an integral part of the culture there, somewhat as it was to eat fresh fish from the river in Spring in the village where I was born, in the days when it was still safe to eat the products of Nature directly without the now enforced processing and marketing. It was something everyone looked forward to, each year.
It is legal for all Newfoundlanders to hunt the birds in season and each person may hunt up to 20 per day and have up to 40 in their possession at any given time.
The population of Newfoundland and Labrador is just over 500,000. Rose Blanche is a small village on the southwestern coast where many residents depend on fishing and hunting to survive.
The average earnings per capita in the Eastern provinces is consistently below that of the other provinces and most Newfoundlanders fall under the poverty line as it is understood by most Canadians.
An estimate of the cost of the investigation that lead to the arrests is in the hundreds of thousands of dollars which far exceeds the return both in terms of dollar amount and in terms of its impact on the bird population.
The individuals who were arrested have been deprived of the tools they need to survive in an environment where few Canadians would be willing or able to cope. A fine of $5,000 can break a family down where disposable income simply doesn't exist.
It is certain that the majority of Canadians, were they asked, would not endorse this type of activity from their Government and would pledge their support to the people of Rose Blanche and Port-aux-Basques who were negatively affected by these actions.