The Trouble with Hammocks

They're too damn comfortable, is what. Whilst life here in the Feej hasn't always been a bed of roses - as with any move, there are teething problems, and these have been exacerbated by the fact that it was a move to a developing country - I have been lucky enough to experience a couple of amazing weekends away from Suva. What follows is a bit of a photo blog post from locations including Beach House on the Coral Coast and the ridiculously relaxing island of Leleuvia.

Caution: the following images contain various scenes of tropical beauty and pristine island paradises and may offend some viewers. Effects of these images may include severe jealousy, burgeoning hatred, a desire to volunteer in the Pacific, and even the unconscious use of your credit card to book flights here. If you don't believe you can handle what follows, hit the Back button on your browser now.

I've actually only seen this once or twice in the month I've been here, so it's pretty special

Seriously. They're so very very comfortable.

Water Hazard

It’s crazy to think that I’ve been in Fiji for a month already. In some ways it feels as though I’ve barely scratched the surface of what life is like here. In others, I feel I’ve learnt some valuable lessons that are worth mentioning.

Transport

There are many ways of getting around in Suva (there are also multiple ways of getting almost anywhere. It’s still confusing trying to work out where you’re going, because there are so many one way streets and weirdly angled intersections. I’m getting the hang of it though). Buses are the cheapest mode of vehicular transport, and are generally garishly painted and pumping out both last year’s top 40 songs (see Volunteer Mix No. 1 for an idea) and a serious amount of dirty exhaust.

My personal vehicle of choice is the taxi. Taxis come in all shapes and sizes, but all are in a similar state of disrepair. You’re perhaps less likely to hear old top 40 music during a taxi ride (although more likely to develop a mild distaste towards Hindi pop), but if you do happen upon a taxi that has a functional CD player or radio, chances are it’s also decked out with home theatre speakers sitting on the rear parcel shelf, neon lights and a disco ball, and you’re about to experience a sensory overload. One positive: it makes an awkward conversation with the driver – this can constitute anything from “are you married?” to “next time you’re free come to my house and my wife will cook curry and we’ll drink beer! Happiness is more important than money” to “I’m an insurance broker and just drive a taxi in between appointments to make money. Would you like some insurance?” – a moot point. The plus side to all of this is that taxis are cheap and ridiculously common. The sum of all parts equals an often entertaining, often ear-ringing, convenient and cheap mode of transport.

Finally, your own feet are quite obviously the cheapest and healthiest way to get around. Suva is a pretty small city, and fortunately, I live relatively close to the centre. Of course, like buses and taxis, there are hazards to be aware of. These include but don’t encompass: people on the street trying to carve your name on a piece of wood and trying to sell it to you (only really happens in the centre of town and isn’t that bad); a substantial lack of good footpaths; and perhaps most importantly, water. Which segues nicely to….

Water Hazards

Water is everywhere here. Outrageously obvious I know, considering I’m living in a country constituting a few hundred islands which span a pretty massive area of the Pacific Ocean (I’m so lazy I can’t even be bothered looking that up on Wikipedia). As I type, it’s bucketing down, and has been for most of this week. I’ve already talked about the rain, but apart from getting wet, I haven’t mentioned many of the ill effects of rain.

Obviously, things other than your person get wet. This includes roads and footpaths and dirt (which turns into mud, but probably already knew that). However, due to the sheer amount and frequency of rain, things tend to stay wet. And when things stay wet, they start growing things. Slippery things. Combine this with the fact that thongs are the most practical (and awesome) footwear to employ here, and you (or at least me) have a slight problem. I’ve given myself three months to break an ankle. Having said that, I’ve gotten pretty good at navigating the road between my house and work, and know almost precisely where to tread carefully.

 This is a drain doing the opposite of what it's meant to - water is bubbling up onto the street

Water hazards also include drinking water. It’s generally pretty good, although a few of the volunteers that have been around for a while have told stories about it coming out of the tap murky every now and then, or not at all. I’d assumed it was nothing more than a scare tactic employed on the newbies, until I filled a bottle this morning and it came out with a slight brown tinge. I’m pretty thirsty right now.

Misinterpretation

Working in a foreign country is of course a challenge. The difference in language is one of the biggest barriers to communication one can face. Fortunately we in Fiji are lucky that English is widely spoken, and well spoken. I haven’t had any real issues with communicating verbally here at all. Working in an office full of deaf people is another story. I’m still very new to deaf culture, not to mention Fijian sign language. Whilst there’s generally at least one interpreter around, this isn’t always the case. Nor is it a guarantee that things are understood. Case in point: yesterday a group of us went to the Fiji National University to present to various faculty heads on the United Nations Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities. Our aim was to raise awareness and create dialogue that could eventually lead to sign language interpreters being used to allow deaf students to study there. As we were leaving the office I was in charge of shutting the door. Note well young padawans: shutting is not the same as locking. Fortunately the only thing I locked in the office was the key. That should perhaps have read unfortunately, but still, if the building had burnt down no one would’ve been trapped inside. Luckily, I already knew the sign for ‘sorry’.

Sulu: Wearing the manskirt has become less of a novelty and a bit more of a chore. Sure, it’s breezy and cool, and enables you to match thongs with business attire. It can also be a little too breezy at times, particularly when walking to work. Adding another thing to concentrate on (and sometimes grip to prevent accidental flashing) whilst travelling on slippery surfaces is never a good idea. However, the Fijians love it, and they’re not afraid of telling you so. Still takes a bit to get used to when someone says “ooh yes, it suits you very much!”

Gas

I’m referring here to the natural, non-human variety that is used as a power source for cooking and other things here. Unlike Australia, you don’t simply get your house connected to the mains when you move in. Each place has its own medium sized gas bottle, and the idea is to replace it when it empties. Unfortunately for us, ours emptied about 10 seconds into turning on the stove to cook dinner a few nights ago. Eating out is pretty cheap and easy, so it wasn’t the end of the world. However, we were all in such a lazy mood we decided to get pizza delivered. Not so cheap, and not so good. Then, due largely again to laziness (the fact we can’t be bothered to remember the gas tank is empty constitutes laziness, doesn’t it?) we forgot to get the tank replaced the next day, and faced another night with no way to cook. Survival skills were implemented and a heat rock-powered BBQ was brought out of storage and put to the task of cooking onion. After about 40 minutes, when the oil had just started to bubble, I left and went to another volunteer’s house for dinner.

Thus ends another text-heavy post. Sorry about that, but really, wouldn’t you rather be wasting time on the internet by reading stuff? Probably not, no.

The title of this blog post occurred to me as I was having mild and frequent heart attacks walking home from work one afternoon, unsuccessfully dodging the slippery places and almost face-planting about a million times. I dredged it from the vast depths of my impressive mind, and it’s not original. Cookie for reference (NB this is internet slang and does not mean I’ll actually give you a cookie. I have however discovered a pretty good brand of coconut flavoured biscuits that go down a treat).

What's in a Name?

Awesomeness is what, and I’ll tell you why. In the deaf community, people are given sign names as a way to identify a person: fingerspelling names can be clumsy and a little slow. Especially considering some of the names in Fiji. The names usually describe an aspect of a person. For instance, the senior interpreter Gael’s sign name is a G followed by a sign that denotes the fact that she has a streak of white running through her hair. Jill, our project officer, has a much more unfortunate name: a variation on the sign for ‘sick’, because she was often sick as a kid. As you can tell, it can be hit or miss, and the name sticks.

George and I had been told we’d be observed for a week or so, our mannerisms monitored in order to have a sign name selected for us. I think we were both a little concerned about being watched, so we generally tried extra hard to make a good impression. Because seriously, who wants a sign name that means grumpy face? Actually, the Fijian deaf community won’t give someone a sign name with negative connotations, which is a pretty good policy to have (I don’t know how Jill got hers then, but I haven’t had the courage to ask why her sign name sucks).

It was towards the end of my second week here that I noticed I was being referred to as the guy with glasses. I rarely wear glasses, and I’m betting that unless you’ve seen me in front of a computer or reading a book, you probably didn’t know I even wore them. I may be a little socially awkward, and I may love reading, but I don’t often bring a book to a restaurant or a pub. It was with disdain then, that I realised my potential sign name was largely meaningless – and a little nerdy – outside the workplace. Not wanting to tread on any foreign toes just yet, I nodded and smiled and laughed, thinking all the while, why can’t I be known as happy face?

 

As it turns out, my sign name is even better. George was away one arvo ‘working’ from home, and Gael and I were having a bit of a conversation about what my hobbies were. Well aware of where this was potentially going, and eager to steer as far away from being known forevermore as ‘Foureyes’ as possible, I eagerly admitted that I enjoyed playing the guitar. I didn’t mention that I wasn't any good at it. And thus my sign name was born: the sign for guitar combined with the American one-handed letter S. For those playing at home, my name is basically playing an air guitar, except strumming with a closed fist (AKA the American one-handed letter S).

The next day George was awarded his sign name during a buffet lunch at the Holiday Inn. I pushed for it to be the sign for eating prodigious amounts of food, but Jill denied that – too mean. Instead he is now known as ‘G Rugby’. We’re both pretty happy.

Yes, I am aware of the irony: it’s probable more people know I wear glasses than play guitar. And Iof course use the word ‘play’ loosely. But what does that matter? I have a cool name now. One that will make you think of me (fondly, I hope) when playing Guitar Hero.

The Versatility of Roti

Just a quick one, I promise. Roti, that delicious flat Indian bread that consistently plays second fiddle to naan, is a staple here in Feej. I don’t really want to reveal this next bit to you all, because it may mean some of you will never visit me here, but I feel it’s best to lay all the cards on the table. Roti reigns supreme here because naan is non-existent. Something about it not being part of the variety of Indian culture that permeates Fijian society. Don’t let that devastate you too much: in most of the classier Indian restaurants, you’re able to get naan fairly cheaply to go with your butter chicken. I may or may not have made a habit of ordering naan and samosas from the local mall food court (because yes, the food court is a classy place). But roti is king, and it has been embraced by the Fijian people as well, leading to a wonderful fusion of tastes.

During our orientation week, we all learnt how to make roti. Strangely enough, every single one of us already knew how to eat it in large quantities. It’s relatively simple to make (only two ingredients: flour and water), but even easier to buy off the street, so I think that’s the road I’ll be travelling.

Last week on our lunch break George and I were wandering the streets of Samabula (a suburb near our work) and George had some lunch at a local Indian restaurant. As is common, the meal of chicken and dhal was served with about three roti. The only accompanying condiment was a spoon. No napkin, no fork. Challenge to all you good folk out there: try and eat a chicken curry which still has bones with a spoon. Then, once you’ve given up and used your hands instead, look around for a method to wipe your face and hands.

Enter roti.

For those that didn’t understand what just happened there, I’ll elucidate. Roti can be used for a lot of things: as a traditional base for Indian food, a wrap for fillings like spicy beef or tuna, and even as a napkin to remove excess food from one’s face and hands. Was it not obvious?

First Impressions

My first official half-week at work has come and gone without much pomp and circumstance. And without air conditioning, a comfortable chair, and a handful of other creature comforts. No, it’s not really a big deal, and yes, there are perks. For instance, I wore shorts and thongs to the office on Thursday. I also paid $1 Fijian (about 60 Aussie cents) for a corned beef and spice-filled roti for morning tea. If that’s not the complete opposite of a dealbreaker, I don’t know what is

With our induction to Fiji and volunteer program out of the way, us Suvanian volunteers got stuck into work on Wednesday. Both George and myself are working at the Fijian deaf society: George doing some financial spring cleaning and me working on bringing in the bacon. Emma, our housemate and co-volunteer, is working at the Department of Environment with the goal of developing a national climate change policy. No biggie.

I’d had the opportunity to meet my counterpart Gael in Brisbane over Christmas last year (she was the one that told me wearing shorts and thongs to work was OK). Apart from George and I, she is the only non-deaf person working in our office. The office itself is what the generous would call small, and frequently shrinks when crowds of people come in to say hello. The Association (FAD) is part of a wider compound that houses a number of other NGOs dealing with people living with disabilities. We’re next door to the Association of the Blind, and just down the corridor from the Stroke Survivor Association. Quite obviously, it’s an eclectic mix of people. There’s no fridge, no internet (I’m ‘borrowing’ from the wireless network from the vocational education school next door to the compound), and you have to bring your own toilet paper when you go to the bathroom. Having said that, a fridge really isn’t required: a man selling roti filled with pure awesomeness alternates with a man selling banana muffins and egg sandwiches, so there’s abundant cheap food. And as for toilet paper, yeah, I guess that’s a necessity, but one easily managed.

Our office is quite busy with people, mainly interpreters or deaf people, coming and going throughout the day, but there is a core staff of about five people, including George and I. Yep, we’ve almost doubled the organisation. Jill and Isoa are both deaf and work as project officers, with Gael sort of a senior interpreter and liaison officer. Both George and I have only the most rudimentary knowledge of Australian sign language, which bears some similarities to Fijian sign, but we’re in no way confident enough to exchange more than a few words of greeting. Thus Gael is a bit of a lynch pin for us, and it came as a bit of a blow to hear from her on our first day that she was working elsewhere at the moment and wouldn’t be in the office until July. Despite those words, she’s been here the entire time. Fiji, uh?

As for the work, it’s been slow getting off the ground. I’d say most of that is due to this being Fiji, and as one of the other volunteers, Andrew, said, Fiji isn’t a very intense place. There is no hitting the ground running. The ground’s too soft and muddy for that. And unless you’re part of a sports team, there is no running. Even knowing this would be the case before I started here, the change in pace from work in Australia is monumental. And I didn’t even work that hard to begin with. There’s a lot of sitting and waiting for someone to complete a task for you, and in my case, there’s even more sitting and watching madly as three conversations in sign language go on in one room simultaneously.

I won’t bore you with the details of what my work actually entails. Not fully anyway. I will say this: my job description is virtually non-existent, but everything I’ve done thus far falls loosely into the marketing and resource development arena. I’ve also become quite the MS Publisher whiz. Pre-Feej, I hadn’t even realised I had it on my computer. The people are all incredibly friendly and eager to learn. I guess it shouldn’t come as a surprise, but from the tiny bits of training I’ve given to the office thus far, I’ve noticed that deaf people are incredibly quick visual learners.

Surprisingly, the most tiresome aspect of the job is watching these silent conversations occur across the room, and trying to make sense of them. The whole experience is completely different to listening with your ears: there’s no way you can be typing on the computer and listening at the same time. You literally have to stop and watch, something which is totally foreign to me. I realise that sounds very obvious, and it is, but there’s a lot of mental exhaustion that seems to go with it. Makes me feel extremely fortunate to be in a country where almost everyone speaks English.

George and I will hopefully be starting Fijian sign lessons soon (although soon carries precisely no weight here, so don’t get too excited just yet), and should be able to start communicating more effectively with our peers in due course.

I’ve just realised that all my other posts have included a little something at the end to spice things up a bit. I’m loathe to ignore tradition, but I’m not sure I have anything even remotely clever to say. Like I said, this job is draining. And it’s only Day 4. Aces. But don’t feel sorry for me, there are many positives. Like, it hasn’t rained in nearly four days.