Anecdotal Evidence

It was a particularly noncommittal day weatherwise when our unassuming hero Stiji arrived on foot at the place of his voluntarism. Outside volunteer circles, work was always vocalised as ‘volunteering’, for reasons relating to the respectful and awestruck looks one receives upon stating that ‘yes, it’s true, I’m a full time volunteer. I volunteer’. The conversation inevitably wraps up prematurely upon further questioning, lest the respectful and awestruck passersby ask exactly how much the volunteer wage is.

Upon arriving at the office soon after 8, Stiji found the door locked. This was by no means an uncommon occurrence. In fact, the more astute percentage of the population will make an uncannily accurate statement, examples of which include: ‘that door is still locked at 8 as often as the sun rises in the east’; or ‘that door is as likely to be open by 8 as tits on a bull’. Unfazed, Stiji sat down in the kitchen, where he waited for the usual 40-45 minutes before someone arrived bearing the incredibly rare/possibly unique office key.

Entry was gained with a little more than seven hours of the working day remaining, and Stiji, sporting a rather lovely (yet blister-inducing) new pair of flip-flops courtesy of his sister, sat down and prepared for his day. He spared a morose look for the other half of the small desk, which up until the day previously, he had shared with another volunteer. Due to lack of space, they had often played involuntary footsie, and recently signed the Treaty of Orangedesk, ending the Elbow Wars for the sixteenth time. George’s absence was possibly for the best, as the fifteen previous treaties had maintained peace for no more than 72 hours, and the numerous violations of the Geneva Convention, namely the inclusion of elbow-mounted shivs, pointed towards imminent mutually assured destruction. Still, the morose look was pointed and drawn out in an overly dramatic fashion, and then Stiji got to enjoying having a whole desk to himself.

It is a well-known fact that Stiji’s place of employment/voluntarism (dependent on the reader) was a dreadfully entertaining place to work/volunteer, in a sort of tear-your-hair-out-in-order-not-to-pay-for-haircuts, bang-your-face-against-the-wall-because-broken-noses-look-dashing way. Previous chuckle-worthy misadventures have included Stiji being asked to ‘push a button’ to get more funding; writing a letter to a bank asking for a tent for Deaf people to sit under at the highly celebrated Hibiscus Festival; and most recently, writing a letter asking for 13 chickens to be donated to cover monthly office costs.

This day, with the noncommittal weather, was no different. Stiji found himself being the only hearing person in the office. Whilst this had happened frequently in the past, George had previously always been present to share the onerous tasks of answering the phone and feigning ignorance whenever someone came into the office wanting something. However, being considered somewhat of an ‘old hand’ at this volunteering thing (the term ‘old hand’ officially becomes part of one's handle upon volunteering for six months), the daily chores became a little more complicated. Unfortunately, Stiji’s knowledge of sign language had not increased at the same rate.

Interpretation of the first query went something like this: “Can you call….check…Tina….pay”. With that knowledge in hand, Stiji made the call. Fortunately, it was engaged. Next job was to call Tina directly. The Tina who, at that very moment, was interpreting at a workshop in Nadi and would in no way answer her phone. Still, Stiji tried four times, exercising a level of patience which he thought he still needed several thousand more XP points for. Tina eventually called back to remind Stiji’s office colleagues what she had already told them a few days earlier.

The proverbial icing on the cake, which for the record, Stiji had not enjoyed for quite some time now, was interpreted by Stiji thus: “Can you call this number ask for number for bags chicken”. Thinking on his newly-blistered feet, Stiji worked his sign language magic in an attempt to further clarify. He signed: “What?” Slowly, more information was dredged to light. Communication reverted to pen and paper, but now confident what to ask for (the number for the bags of chicken), he made the call. It went something like this: “Yes hi, um, hi, I’m calling because someone here faxed a letter last week asking for bags of chickens, and we need the number for it. You’ll put me through to marketing? Great, thanks….Yes hi, um, hi, I’m calling because someone here faxed…no wait, sorry, mailed, no, hang on, ah, he came into your office last week with a letter. Yep, so there was this guy that came to your office last week with a letter asking for donations of bags of chickens. And apparently we need a number for that. What kind of number? You got me. Yes! Like a reference number! A reference number for the bags of chickens so we can pick them up on Thursday. You don’t give out reference numbers. OK. Great. Any chance you can just give a random selection of numbers I can give to my colleagues? No, you’re right, that would be wrong. So you don’t – wait, hang on. We’ve found it. We’ve found the number. It was on the bottom of the letter we sent you, filed in the filing cabinet exactly where it should’ve been. Why am I calling? He said he lost it. No, you’re right. I would’ve looked exactly where it should’ve been first too. Thank you for your time. Thanks. Buh-bye”.

Minutes later, Stiji decided his hair was rather long enough, thank you very much, and proceeded to tear it out in a precise and methodical manner. He had had, after all, plenty of practice.

Apparently this kind of thing is bloggable. I’m not so sure, but hey, why not. If you can't laugh, you cry, right? I really need you all to laugh so I'm laughing like a maniac on my own.

A Brave New World

I woke gradually to the sound of rain falling at a decelerated rate onto the synthetic physical barrier above me. Stretching, I brushed my finger against the wall of the somnia capsule and the rain eased immediately, its function as a wake-up call fulfilled. With a series of melodious tinklings emanating from its speakers, Errol, my personal biosynth assistant floated into the room, broadcasting overnight news direct to my brain via light pulse. I swung out of my capsule, and stood. Errol removed a gown from my wardrobe and wrapped it around me with a maniple field whilst simultaneously ejecting morning sustenance from its dusky body. As I consumed my combination of proteins, vitamins and complex carbohydrates, the gown Errol had wrapped around me shivered, sloughing off dirt and dead skin cells using sonic vibrations. Its job complete, the gown was removed and I manually stepped into the day’s clothing.

Stepping out of my quarters and into the warmly lit corridor, I was gently instructed by light pulse to breathe deeply. A faint scent of what I was told was cinnamon and banana registered, and contentment blossomed within me. I presented a warm smile and nod of greeting to Landa, my proximal inhabitant who had exited her quarters at the same time. I acquiesced to the light pulse persuading me to verbally greet Landa.

“Hello”.

“Pleasant morning, Tomn” was her response. Had my system not been full of the neural relaxants and cognition suppressors currently mixing within the hall’s atmosphere, I may have detected a slight level of panic within her voice. The light pulse, flickering imperceptibly from nodes within the floor to ceiling screens of warm illumination, advised me to question what she was wearing on her face. Had she responded to the question, the answer would have been ‘glasses’. However, her reaction was unexpected and shocking, even in my chemically-induced relaxed state. She stopped immediately, and turned faster than I had ever seen a human move. Her muscles bunched and tensed, and it looked as though she were about to sprint away. Then she paused, turned again, lifted her arms to my shoulders and gripped them. I registered pain.

“They’re gone, Tomn. They’re gone. Everything has changed”.

And with that, she too was gone, sprinting down the corridor at a speed which baffled me completely. There was silence: even the light pulse was flicking a holding pattern of non-information directly to my neural synapses through my ocular senses. For the first time since…since forever, it was truly silent. I felt something stirring deep within, rising from the depths of my subconscious. My tactile senses prickled, and a wave of heat washed from my chest to my extremities. Then, a change in the atmosphere, and smell of coriander, cumin, and a hint of avocado filled the hall, and that shadow within me began to sink once more. The light pulse fired into my eyes with ferocious rapidity, and I’d forgotten why I’d even stopped. I turned and walked in warm comfort towards my activity station.

Alk strolled over to me as I sat down at my station and pushed my hands into the synthetic conductor gel. A screen lifted before me, and the light pulse strobed instructions in time with Alk’s gentle voice.

“Hello, Tomn”.

“Pleasant morning, Alk”.

“Are you ready to begin your daily activity?”

At that moment, the shadow within leapt and took control, snapping my neck to the right. Landa usually sat at the station there. It was empty.

“Where’s Landa?” I asked. As the shadow sunk once more into nothingness, I noticed Alk pause and tilt his head, his eyes locking more fully onto the light pulse.

“Who’s Landa?” Alk asked gently. The shadow again struggled to rise, but this time it was met with the fragrance of medium steak drizzled with fresh mushroom gravy. It immediately sank below, and I realised that I did not in fact know who Landa was. Alk spoke again.  “Are you ready to begin your daily activity?”

“Yes, I am”, I replied.

“Today we’re doing something different. We’ve removed a few things from the equation, but your activity remains the same. Do you understand?”

“What did you remove?” I asked.

There was a slight pause. Part of me thought Alk perhaps did not want to broach a sensitive subject.

“We have removed G-6 and Intake 29”.

The shadow leapt again, this time detonating within me and sending terror arcing through my body. No G-6 or Intake 29. The very thought of life without them fuelled the panic I was experiencing. I tore my eyes from the light pulse and its soothing suggestions, and the feeling of hopelessness increased exponentially. No more G-6 or Intake 29. How would I possibly function without these vital ingredients of life? No G-6 meant a complete lack of entertainment during all waking hours, particularly those spent at daily activities. The demise of Intake 29 suggested a massive upset in social cohesion and leisure activities, not to mention a marked decrease in planning and other events. It meant far heavier reliance on the existing Intakes 30 and 31, and extreme expectations for the upcoming Intake 32. In sum, it was a complete game changer.

As these horrible thoughts hurtled around my consciousness, colliding and wheeling within the ever-expanding shadow, I barely heard Alk trying to persuade me:

“Tomn, you need to look at the screen. Look at the screen Tomn. Tomn, focus your eyes on the screen”.

But I would not. My head jerked from side to side and tears trickled and then streamed down my face as I faced the prospect of living life without G-6 and Intake 29. Landa, whoever she was, had been right. Everything had changed. With an inhuman shriek, I began to pull my hands from the synthetic conductor gel. Somewhere far away I heard Alk speak. An instant later the room filled with the buttery smell of hollandaise sauce, perfectly poached eggs, fried bacon and wilted spinach. Slowly, the shadow receded. Moments later it had all but disappeared, and my stomach rumbled. I sunk my hands back into the synthetic conductor gel and began my daily activities. But somewhere, deep within, hiding underneath the dark shadow that remained, was knowledge that I had experienced six months, six wonderful, life-changing months, with G-6 and Intake 29.

This post is dedicated purely to those living Feej-side. Friends and family in Australia, internet wanderers, and strangers reading this in Indonesia (oh wait…maybe you’re not a stranger. Karin?) will most probably not get much sense out of it, and may perhaps think I’ve flipped my lid. That’s unimportant (although yes, maybe I have). What is important is farewelling G-6 and Intake 29: moce mada George, Andrew, Connie, Nikki, Glen, and Grace. You’ll be missed.

Chords of Success

If you’re not into music, comedy, or random Youtube clips, you probably aren’t aware of this astounding fact: many, many pop songs are constructed from the same chord progression. Don’t believe me? A load of rot, you say? Well I say this: shame on you. I have an honest face. And if you still don’t believe me, feast your earholes on this incontrovertible musical evidence.

In your face. Axis of Awesome’s revelation has led to many, many Suva Guitar Heroes jam sessions (oh did I not mention? I’m in a band. We have T shirts and everything) where we sit and play the same chord progressions over and over again and discover as many new songs as we can. These sessions have occurred on beaches, by bonfires, and in various volunteer houses (details can be found on the back of our T shirts). It’s actually quite scary just how many songs feature the same chord progression. You have to wonder about musical plagiarism sometimes.

Suva Guitar Hero band shirts - for sale. Contact me directly if you want to become a groupie.

Tapping into my inner genius and teleconferencing with my creative juice (on sabbatical in Paris), I recently came to the conclusion that this magical chord progression can not only be used in music, but within the very fabric of life itself. I KNOW! For the purposes of this exercise, the chord progression being used is C-G-Am-F.

Crisis Alert – Life needs crises. Floating along in normalcy is not only dull, it’s dangerous. A boring life leads to more napping. Napping is great, but only in moderation. According to studies conducted by Dr Spaceman, an increase in sleep patterns is almost as dangerous as eating bread. Excitement, stress, and adventure all help to make life more worthwhile. Examples of Crisis Alerts include not being able to do the job you were hired to do; getting a coffee-flavoured choc top instead of vanilla when going to the movies; or experiencing a wet weekend at a beachside environment. In all cases, these crises have led to higher stress levels but also higher levels of appreciation for the good times.

Goals – What’s the point of living if you have nothing to live for? A question many people ask (a lot of them are Greeks at the moment) whilst standing on a literal precipice. A key to success in life is having a goal – or goals, if you’re able to multi-task (which in and of itself is a noble goal to have) – to work towards. Goals may include anything from naturally sun bleaching your hair, to getting a totally awesome thong (North Americans: read flip-flop) tan, to riding the inflatable whale Wayni Lailai for 30 seconds or more, to achieving the work plan set out for you by your organisation.

Amnesty – This really only applies to those living overseas on a diplomatic passport, but the fact remains that forgiveness for things such as small slipups in judgement and rather larger issues of gross misconduct (I really hope no one called PETA over our use of Wayni Lailai) and thievery of pub property (I’m looking at you, Veronica TheLovely) is critical to the wellbeing of an individual. Without the knowledge that mistakes can be made but you can always try again, who has the drive to go forth and make a name for themselves? Risk is all well and good in some scenarios, but a safe, warm and encouraging environment is a real requirement for living life.

It's most definitely not what it may or may not look like.

Friends – Mushy as it may be, friendships, and relationships of any kind, are the glue that holds life together. Without friendships, who would be there to help with Crisis Alerts? Without friends, there is no one to celebrate with you when you achieve that truly kick-ass thong tan. Without friends, you can’t smuggle a beer tower out of a pub without being detected. Friends, above all, make life what it should be: a truly wonderful experience, where the highs are celebrated, and the lows are commiserated. Of course, like the F chord itself, there are different friend combinations. Here in the Feej, friends come and go with depressing regularity. But that’s a tale for my next post. For now, let’s just go with the fact that friends rock, and make life interesting.

And there you have it. The chord progression for life and success*

*Success is a completely subjective term and I in no way guarantee real world success (where success = higher than average income and large doses of other forms of material and emotional contentment) by following this simple progression. But eating cheese probably helps.

Canned Laughter

I had several expectations of my time in Fiji. These included but were not limited to learning Fijian Sign Language, making new friends (blah blah blah), getting awesomely tanned, becoming desensitised to tropical paradises, and increasing my chances of developing skin cancer. Predictably, most of these things have occurred to some degree already. There have been some surprises as well. For instance, I was not expecting to learn that you don’t actually have to iron t-shirts. Nor was I expecting to go blonde. So very blonde. But the biggest shock to me so far I think has been the staggering amount of TV and movies I’ve sunk my time into. I mean, I didn’t even think I’d have a TV. Or that choc tops could be so delicious still, even after the 30^th one (I’m probably not even exaggerating, I’ve seen a lot of movies here, and you can’t not have a choc top when you go. It’s sacrelicious). It’s gotten to the point now where the days of the week are now synonymous with TV shows. Taco Tuesday may be a thing of the past, but we have Wire Wednesday instead. And of course Sucky Cinema Sunday is practically patented. And now that I’ve just realised how much fun alliteration can be, I’m tempted to institute 30 Rock Thursday. Who’s with me?

Then there are all those shows that don’t fit easily into the working week. Here I’m of course referring to such classics as How I Met Your Mother, Community, Modern Family, and, most recently popularised by yours truly, Suits (I even managed to export that to the Samoan volunteers. Such is my power). Let’s not forget West Wing, Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, The Good Wife, Shameless (yes, I know, I haven’t watched it yet, but it’s on my to-do list), and Black Books. And then there are the movies. From Thor to Lion King 3D, if it’s been released in Suva since my arrival, chances are high that I’ve seen it whilst enjoying a vanilla-flavoured choc top or loudly exclaiming that this isn’t vanilla as I eat a coffee-flavoured choc top.

My point is not that I’m very apparently a fat lazy bum that really doesn’t do anything. I resent any and all comments to that effect and offer up my golden-brown (and potentially cancer-prone) skin and sun-bleached locks as proof that I do in fact get outside. My point is not even related to that, in fact. Twist!

The fact of the matter is that all this comedy, all this drama, all these special effects, is making real life dull. To slightly edit the words of the vest-wearing Chandler Muriel Bing, “I went to the bank this morning and the teller didn’t hand over my money in a large canvas sack with a big $ sign printed on it”. Nor do I walk into a room only to have to stand and wait straight-faced until the canned laughter dies away (although how cool would that be?). And while taxis and buses break down or crash frequently, none of them ever erupt in ear-shattering explosions and rolling balls of flame. I mean it’s just not fair.

All my (admittedly first-world) problems were addressed a little while back. My life, for a while, mirrored an episode from almost every single sitcom from the 90s and 2000s: My parents came to visit. As with most episodes, all the carefully-crafted plans I laid out to ensure my parents would have a smooth, enjoyable and relaxing time dissolved into humourous set pieces of highly-charged comedic action. Highlights included being charged twice at one of the most expensive resorts in Fiji (HAHAHAHA!); my parents being the only tourists on a tiny island and spending two days asking question after question after question after question to the very understanding and kind staff (only slight murmurs of laughter on that one, but that just makes the next one even better); my parents getting ripped off by a taxi driver, me coming to the rescue and saving them $25 only to have my father side with the driver and demand I give him the full amount (BUAHAHAHAHAH); and the icing on the cake, the cherry on top and the chocolate sauce dribbled down the ice cream swirls: all of us getting a stomach virus one by one and spending 5 days in various hotels, resorts and islands coming to know a number of toilet bowls and buckets intimately (OH IT’S JUST TOO FUNNY HAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!! *WIPES TEARS AWAY*). Isn’t toilet humour the best?

That said, the episode/week with my family finished on a charming and sentimental note, where despite all the pain (predominantly emanating from the stomach) and embarrassment (again, emanating largely from the stomach) was forgotten as we realised how much we all mean to each other and how lovely the time together was. And as the credits rolled, the camera closed in on me, sitting in a bus heading back to Suva, as a large Fijian man sat next to me, practically forcing me into the window with his bulk. And if that isn’t funny enough, a loud grumble rolled out from my stomach and I looked around uncomfortably, only to see a 'Suva - 190km' roadsign flash by….

I made it back to Suva by the unsoiled seat of my pants. I did however miss Wednesday Wire due to being away with my parents, so I need to catch up. It doesn’t feel right watching it on a Monday, but I’ll give it my darndest. Oh, and here's a picture of Community because it's awesome.