9_

Going on four weeks ago I finally got the chance to try snorkeling. A good pal, Jenn had invited me to come out to her village's Marine Protected Area [MPA]. Environmental work not being my specialty, I'm not entirely able to describe what an MPA is- what I do know is that it's an area of water that villagers and outsiders are prohibited from fishing in, throwing rubbish into, or driving boats across. It's essentially a safe zone for corals, reef fish, and other aquatic flora and fauna to thrive- the idea being that the MPA will serve to anchor marine life so that it can grow and spread into the other areas; i.e. the rest of the local reef.

Flash back nearly five months ago to this guy struggling though YP's swimming lessons [and valiantly treading water and swimming laps when he forgot to wake up, thus missing swim class]. I took that challenge on because I had preemptively told the truth to the Federal Government... "Of course I'm a competent swimmer... of course going to a tropical island country surrounded by water won't be a problem." People are funny with swimming. I have associated with some strong swimmers in my day- people who were swim team champions, varsity water polo players, folks doing triathlons etc. My role in these relationships generally involved making snarky comments while secretly hoping that some their athleticism would rub off on me. It didn't- what did was an appreciation of the fact that my swimming two or three laps in a pool does not constitute being a "strong swimmer." That statement is generally followed up with a blank stare from the person I'm talking too, meant to imply that I must either be completely physically incompetent or had an extremely poor and sheltered upbringing. Thus creates the feedback loop where I explain away about three laps in a pool not equaling ability etc, etc.

When Jenn invited me to come out I made it clear that I was skittish of my swimming ability. I got this look that was a mix of pity, worry that she just invited a liability and, I sense, a vague feeling of superiority..."We'll take it easy- you can always stand up if you panic, just watch my coral." Or something to that affect.

This trip, about 35 minutes outside of the town of Navua along the coast was my first real trip outside of Suva. I needed a trip so bad. The city and its challenges for integration and community finding needed a break from me and the feeling was entirely mutual. I had visited my family in the Naqio settlement which took a lot of the immediate pressure off but was still itching for something larger. The bus ride out was spent mostly engrossed in a wonderful book I've since finished called The Zanzibar Chest, it's the memoir of a Reuters news stringer covering the calamities of 1990's Africa. When I finally looked up I thought for a second that I would look over and see Faf and Rachel sitting next to me on the way to safari- the landscape looked so similar. The sun was out and the sky was blue and beautiful. The bus was packed. In front of me a sticky handed toddler stared back at me- the left side of her face past her eye riddled with acne-like bumps, a cross between white-heads and swollen mosquito bites. The speckling descended down to her cheek and neck. Bumps were also on her elbows and arms. It looked like a bad case of scabies to me- something common in the rural villages. It's easy to forget that I'm living in a developing nation in Suva. Out in the rural areas it gets junglii real fast- exponentially growing as one gets more remote. Meeting up with Jenn and walking through her village, I could see the disparity between rural and city, Indo-Fijian and Fijian. The shacks the people lived in were essentially an open room with a cooking area in back- imbe [wrong spelling] [pronounced imh-bay] mats on the floor placed over a layer of dried leaves spread on the rough beams the only furniture. Fiji is a nation of floor sitters.

Jenn showed me her two room burre [pronounced burr-ay], three if you count the shower [I have an extravagant six at my house- plus maid's quarters and garage. .. no, I do not have a maid or a car...]. She also showed me the lock that the local children keep finding a way to lock from the outside- effectively locking Jenn inside her own house [occasional text message: ...those little ****ers...]. It was a wonderful little house and we had a snack of breakfast crackers before lunch, catching up. After lunch we gathered up our snorkels, masks and fins and made our way to the MPA. Swimming for western women in the villages is a bit of a challenge; conservatism is the rule and it stretches well beyond a one piece bathing suit. Try shorts and a long sleeve shirt over a bathing suit. This serves the duel role of adding more protection against the sun and coral which will beat the hell out of you while in the water. The first thing we did was to talk more about my swimming abilities [brief look of pity mixed with earnest pedagogy]. We then performed "the ritual." The ritual involves christening one's snorkel mask- something I think Jenn made up on the spot but she claims was shown to her by the Fijians. It works like this: Take your mask, have you used it before? no? ok... let's back up. Before we left her burre the ritual had already begun. New masks have a layer of something over the lens, best removed by wiping toothpaste all over it. Ok, no problem, my eyes like a nice fresh scent- flash forward to the MPA. We're sitting indian style in the surf on a deserted beach facing each other. The water comes up to our waists and we have our fins and gear sitting in our laps to avoid being carried away by the surf. We look like two kendo warriors about to spar. Following Jenn's instructions I had taken a handful of leaves off this vine-y thing growing at the tree line and had carried them with me. We tore them up, dunked the masks in the water and then rubbed the leaves all over the lenses- inside and out. Done? Ok- time to christen them. We each hocked loogies into our masks, swished it around, rinsed and dawned our masks. Fins on, awkward steps, and Jenn's gone; apparently she has the unique ability to de-evolve millions of years to a fish-like state in a matter of seconds.

My turn. Fins on, awkward shuffle step, water up to my waist, almost fall on razor sharp coral... ok, swim time. With that I was on a completely new planet. Breathing through a snorkel was a new sensation. It feels as though you are getting enough oxygen, but the the lung/air resistance sensation is strange. Mouth breathing, reserved for runners and those with special chromosomes, just feels wrong. It was keeping me alive though and that was great- what was even better is that it allowed my brain the process the ridiculously awesome sights in front of me. The colors and textures were just indescribable. There were all sorts of corals, including brain choral which these small , shimmering fish would swim into, causing the undulations of the coral to be covered in blue dots before the fish would pour out in an iridescent halo of blue. There were sea stars, crown of thorns [no touchy or serious ouchie] and a variety of other reef fish species. The aquatic life was just amazing.

In addition to the complete visual overload, the sensation of movement using swim fins was also completely knew. Being an entry-level swimmer, I often forget to balance the efficiency of out-put between my arms and legs. Often, I would be propelling myself along before realizing that it's my arms doing most of the work... those lazy ass legs doing next to nothing. Swim fins is the exact opposite situation. The efficiency of propulsion it lends to ones legs is incredible. I was motoring along at speeds I'd never experienced as a swimmer, my arms clasped behind my back or at my sides to minimize drag. The feeling of water blowing past my face like wind when running was great. Having an unobstructed airway and becoming comfortable with clearing my snorkel occasionally made the need to completely pull my head out of water pointless. It was a very free, magical sensation. Looking down into the water at all the life made it easy to forget the water was only five feet deep in most places. That was fortuitous too, as I down-flooded my snorkel on two occasions necessitating a quick stand-up to get my bearings.

The MPA completely spoiled me. We swam around for several hours watching the aquatic life, checking out the submerged coral and shrimp farms and practicing some snorkeling fundamentals like mask clearing, fully submerged swimming, and learning why swallowing sea water is bad. After that, we beached ourselves like lizards on a plateau of black, dead coral [the beach] and took a rest. It was sharp and uncomfortable- I fell asleep. Then back to the water for more swimming. When we wrapped up the day, the sun was getting low. Jenn showed me this method of "clock construction", essentially a modified sun dial, that she claimed she learned at camp. With that we went back to the burre. We cleaned up, met the local children [including some guilty of occasional door lockings...] who seemed to take a shine to me [which I exploited to proselytize about the importance of good oral health care...]. We grabbed some dinner before I flagged down a transport truck and caught a ride back into Suva.

The transport trucks, or carriers as they're called, are essentially covered stake trucks that can be hired by multiple people to move groups or freight. They're laid out like military trucks: three can sit up front in the cab, including the driver and the back has two bench seats on each side of the bed along with a welded hoop perpendicular to the edge of the bench on the tailgate side- to prevent the unfortunate but not uncommon instances of ejection from the vehicle. I rolled a quarter of the way home riding in the back along with a Fijian man whose name escapes me... it sounded like "corduroy" but I can't remember. When the front passengers got out, me and Cord moved into the cab- The driver on the right, me and cord on the left. Speeding through the night, I was gripped by the realization of my own mortality. After Cord got out, I moved to the passenger seat where I was able to seat belt myself in. I also got to play the interesting role of being the fare collector for the carrier. We would roll up on a group of Fijians wanting a ride in the dead of night and they would approach my side of the cab with their fare. Out would come my tac-light and things would go smoothly or would descend into a discussion of why the fare was so high. The shock of coming up on a white guy in the middle of nowhere was generally adequate for maintaining smoothness. Coming back into Suva, it was my turn to not catch a break- the transport cost being nearly three times that of the bus fare I paid to get out there. Too tired from my success at sea, I consigned myself to defeat on land. I paid up and headed back to my house in the night.