10_

Recently I took a trip up to the north of the country to hike Fiji's highest peak, the formerly named Mt. Victoria, now known as Mt. Tomanivi, a much deserved upgrade from the original colonial British name. I was excited to do the hike- hell, I'm excited to do anything that might result in mud smeared on my face and a chance to run around in Fiji's more junglii regions. The desk job just kills me some time.

The lead up to the trip was pleasant- I took a day off from work and rode a bus up to Nausori town where I met up with two other PCV's. I rode the bus up through Rakiraki town before getting off in in this little place whose name escapes me where we cached our packs in a park and snoozed in the shade waiting to meet up with the other PCV's that were coming in from different places. Stocking up on water [Fiji is in the middle of a drought emergency in several areas]- we boarded a transport carrier [the same type of vehicle mentioned in the last post] and rode the dirt road and it's many switchbacks up to the cabin where we spent the night.  The weather was noticeably cooler and wet and reminded me of Pennsylvania in the fall. I was glad that I had my rain shell with me.

The next morning was the climb. Prior to climbing we had to perform a sevusevu ceremony in the village at the foot of the peak. The sevusevu [pronounced SAY-voo SAY-voo] ceremony is all about asking permission. Boiled down by an ethnocentric cook [me] it works like this: We enter the village bearing a gift, normally a brown bag of yanqona or some cash to buy yanqona. We meet with the chief of the village and the Mata ni Vanua [Maata-NEE-Voo-ah] who is the chief's spokesman. We tell him we're here to climb the mountain [which we must also pay for, in addition to "guides", or village youth].  He says a bunch of things that sound like gibberish [thanks for coming and thanks for the yanqona, God bless] and then we are free to pay our fees and head out on our hike. The chief was cool- he had obviously been through this process plenty of times and the sevusevu went smoothly. We were invited back for grog after our hike.

Our guides, two possibly three village youth, set out with our crew of roughly ten people to start the hike. Once we had gotten out of eye sight of the village, the ladies in our group took off their sulu's to reveal more appropriate hiking pants and shorts and some of the dudes went sleeveless. Modesty, always a crowd favorite in the villages, isn't necessarily the best attire for hiking. Walking up towards the summit was nice- we passed cows and soaked our pants with morning dew not yet burned off by the rising sun.

At this point, the hike was going along fine. Before setting off I went through what amounts to my normal OCD ritual of packing, evaluating, and re-packing my stuff. I'm getting very comfortable with the realization that others will always view me as an obsessive micro-manager with my kit. Actually, I'm not an obsessive micro manger- I have just sat through a a fifty hour wilderness EMT class and understand how easy it is for people to die in the woods. I don't share that part with people when I first meet them though- instead I take their comments in stride while I debate bits of gear and make mental notes of who will likely die first and be consumed when the situation gets tough.

I had done a brief internet check of the weather and for stories of the hike, with one guy saying it took one hour fifty minutes to summit with another 1 hr 45 minutes for the down climb. Ok- sounds reasonable. The crew of PCV's who had hiked it the year before made these claims, boasts really, about how they "swam" up to the summit because they had climbed in a "hurricane." They claimed that everyone had only been wearing sandals and that they had done it without incident. I was suspicious.

Packing my kit at the cabin, I sacrificed extra food for water- carrying two full nalgene bottles, my first aid kit, breakfast crackers and nutella, my rain shell, a spare shirt, a poncho, SAM splint, 30' of webbing, two locking 'biners, some prusicks, and a Miox purifier. I figured that stories of summiting the mountain in a hurricane while wearing only sandals was an exaggeration but I still wasn't keen on wearing my Teva sandals. Oops! I also realized that I had left my compass in the top drawer back in Suva...

A quick side note- an exhausting number of people have adamantly parroted the advertising rhetoric of various sandal companies; "Lucas, these are hiking sandals..." they say.  I am interested in learning how many wilderness incidents are caused by people over-estimating the performance of this footwear. They claim that the benefits of being able to get their sandals wet more than makes up for their lack of tread and ankle support. I will never be convinced. Ever. These sandals: Teva's, Chacos, Keens, Merrils etc. are great for walks on relatively level ground, or semi-tech inclines that are dry but anything other than these optimized conditions, to me, makes them a liability. I would rather walk around the jungle with soggy kicks and poly-pro socks then mess around with zero ankle support and no tread. Looking at the group, I figured this issue would be the most likely use of the SAM splint. I threw the Tevas in my pack though- why not, and laced up my New Balance trail shoes, missing my leather hiking boots back in America [hopefully] sitting in a cool, dry, place; mold free.

A part of me felt silly carrying all of this shit, er, I mean, kit- and I neurotically fantasized about what a jagoff I would be if it was me who was seriously mangled during the hike [the accident report states that the victim fell tits-over-ass to his death due to his over-weight, top heavy backpack filled with pretentious medical/rescue gear combined with the sheer weight of his neuroticism and paranoia. Investigators say the load apparently shifted, causing him to lose his balance on the approach].

Back on the trail, the hike was great. The stack of PCV's were starting to spread out, the more gung-ho at the front with everyone else somewhere trailing behind. Our point-woman guide was not wasting any time, moving at a brisk clip that was apparently unaware of our slower members in back. Fortunately, the guide taking drag at the back was sticking with this group. We crossed a couple of streams, myself almost soaking my butt in addition to my shoes because of the weight of my self-righteous backpack.

About this time, the trail started to do something fun- It became more of a path, which in turn became a path needing bushwhacked. Of course, this soaked everyone's upper body, the grasses leading up to this point having already irrigated our lower body to saturation.

As the trail got steeper, we began to spread out even more. I moved towards the front of the pack to get a better view of the terrain change. The hike was getting steeper, the path surface turning into wet mud and larger rocks. Stopping at our first rest point, I sipped some water. At this point, we were about a quarter of the way. I asked different people how they were holding up- everyone was doing fine. Even the PCV who was doing the hike in completely smooth bottom "going out" shoes. Hmm. Out came my teva's [they at least had some tread], off came her shoes. Glad I brought those along!

The trail now turned into a semi-technical climb. What does this mean? It means that if I was there with the Search and Rescue team I volunteered with in Pittsburgh PA, the AMRG, and we were using a litter to carry someone out, we would have it on a belay line to make sure it didn't get away from us. In other words, the terrain was getting steeper. By this point, the group was all spread out. The slowest members were barely within eye shot from the middle group [where I had positioned myself], the lead group even further ahead. Everyone seemed happy though and the last group still had a guide with them so we pressed ahead.

The terrain got steeper still. The ground was wet and our path ceased to be. In many places our semi-tech approach turned into a vertical scramble up moss covered boulders, giant, muddy tree roots, and other obstacles. I was having a blast- but I was also aware that no one had expected this sort of terrain.  It was also taking far longer than most of us had expected and many people were hiking [now climbing] in wet, unfamiliar conditions with sandals. I'm sorry- hiking sandals.

I had long since grabbed one volunteers bag to carry for her. She had been using one of those cloth grocery tote bags to carry her stuff and it was becoming a hindrance because she couldn't use her arms as effectively during the scrambles. The med-kit came out for the first time on a tiny precipice to improvise some blister protection from a volunteer whose ankle was getting chewed up from her footwear. Duct-tape. I used the break to call the group furthest behind and got no answer. Times like this are interesting to me because no one else ever seems concerned. I remained silent considering the situation; maybe I'm just over-reacting. Ok. Move on out.  We kept climbing, vertical scrambling, walking along muddy ridge-lines, etc; the cost of straying more than a foot in some places could have resulted in a long, muddy cartwheel to the bottom of Mt. Tomanivi. Like I said, I was having a blast- but I was also getting concerned about the last group.

The middle group, my group, made the summit; the exact time I'm not really sure... The summit, a clearing in the trees with a sign and a pile of rubble to sit on was a sight to behold. Not really. The summit is often shrouded in clouds today was no different. The sun had not yet been successful in burning them off. I remember it being chilly up there too and I was glad I had my rain shell because of the temperature difference and periodic drizzles. I was also really hungry. I dove into my breakfast crackers and nutella- trading some for additional fruit and peanut butter. I'm not sure what I would have done [besides mooch] had I not packed food. I could feel how drained I was from the climb up and I needed sugar and carbs.  I wish I had brought more food.

Fortunately, the final knot of people made the summit, much to my relief.   We all sat there, eating our food, enjoying the warmth when the sun periodically broke through the clouds. Some of the group had neglected to pack food so we shared with them- others had not brought rain gear. Still another person was almost completely out of water. I'm glad I had brought both nalgenes.

I'm not knocking the folks who were unprepared. I get psyched when people want to do stuff like this and I want to encourage it. For many of them, this was their first serious hike and they had no previous context in which to consider and plan for. Of course it would have appeared crazy to some of them to go rolling in loaded with kit. I am starting to think that most people see preparation as outcome oriented as opposed to prevention oriented. In other words, why would someone need 30' of webbing and a riggers belt if they had no intention of rappelling down a cliff? Or, I'm just going for a day hike, I won't even go off the marked trail- why should I bring two large garbage bags and lighter if I have no intention of spending the night miserable and alone...but at least dry and warm. Those attitudes are human. I reflected back on times in the woods with my dad growing up, lessons I had learned from J-Rocc, my designated life tutor, and my time spent with AMRG. More than particular skills, that time reinforced how important having an awareness and context for actions are. At times it haunts me, manifesting itself in ways that appears to obsess over information and planning. People respond by saying "your planning is too intense, you have to be flexible." What I have a hard time articulating is that planning helps to define my flexibility because it increases the awareness I have for a particular subject. More awareness means more knowledge to act on when avoiding or dealing with the shit-storm. It seems like a no brainer but it took a couple of miserable nights out in the woods for it to sink into me. Planning, in many ways, isn't even the point- the increased awareness is. The plans don't even need to work right- or even be utilized- but that awareness will always help a person out.

We ate some more food, I pulled out the kit again to re-tape the volunteers blister dressing and we began the down climb. I made a request for everyone to stick together- that lasted for about three minutes and then everyone was split up again. The lead team raced ahead, I hung back with the slowest members- made slower because the path we took for the down climb, the same we had used to summit, was now a muddy, slick chute without ladders. This played havoc with several volunteers sandals. Unfortunately, when mud and water get between the foot and the sandal surface, the foot tends to slide around in the sandal bed, no matter how tight you lock down the straps. Several PCV's actually took them off believing they could get better purchase going barefoot. This also slowed progress. I personally slid most of the way down on my ass; better I thought, than my forehead.

We met up with the middle group near the bottom. They were finishing up a rest stop and waited with my knot of people. We waited quite some time for the final stragglers to catch up. The sun was out and in full force by now, drying up the mud and eliminating the dew. The clouds parted and as we returned to level ground, the blue sky and sun reflected on the plant life. At one point, the path moved through a clearing of wildflowers that I had missed when tramping up the soaking wet countryside that morning. It was nearly 4:00 when myself and two others returned to the village. There were still four people some twenty minutes behind us making it nearly 4:30pm before everyone was accounted for. Our hike had lasted at least 7 hours, possibly more, covering terrain that no one had anticipated.

Aside from being muddy, tired, and banged up everyone had made the summit and returned without incident [aside from some odds and ends lost during the frequent falls from slipping in the mud.] I spent that night at a PCV's home in Rakiraki. That night, we had a nice spaghetti meal before hitting the sack and I was on the bus bound for Suva the next day.

The hike had been just what I needed and I'm looking forward to doing it again- I will bring just as much kit with me, and I'm excited to see whether or not our "guides" will use the same approach.  I'm thankful that no one was injured, and interested to see how what was learned and observed is applied to the next outing. Looking forward to it...

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.