Volunteer Mix Volume 1.

The Universality of Sarcasm

I was going to begin this post with a sarcastic comment about how I’m not a huge fan of sarcasm, but felt it was overly simple and entirely too obvious. Instead, I decided to explain what I was going to do to give the impression that I actually think before writing, which in turn points to my intelligence and wit. Remarkably clever? Hardly.

But where did this scathingly brilliant (or atrociously underhanded, as the case may be) form of humour come from? I was going to try and suggest that it was in fact me that developed sarcasm for the masses, but even the dullest of my readers (which I think totals about 5 now, woot!) would probably be able to see right through that. Instead, I chose the next best option: looking it up on Wikipedia. Because that’s what Wikipedia’s for. According to this wholly remarkable and uncannily accurate free online encyclopaedia, sarcasm was first recorded way back in England in 1579 in an annotation to The Shepheardes Calendar (October to be precise). The wiki page then goes on to explain the meaning of the word, which has something to do with the gnashing of teeth, possibly one of my favourite (and one of the most common) descriptors in the Bible.

The point to all of this delightful prose is this: I think sarcasm was one of the lesser known but more widely utilised effects of colonialism. Go ahead, collect your jaws from the floor, because yep, this just got deep. If Wikipedia is true (and why wouldn’t it be), the Brits clearly refined sarcasm to an art over the centuries before stacking the Endeavour’s holds with it and taking it across the world.

What does this have to do with Fiji? I’ll tell you. On the weekend our group of volunteers visited a village on the coast a couple of hours north of Suva in an effort to be enculturated. Despite near constant rain and black sand beaches, it was a great weekend away from the pollution-heavy air of Suva. We learnt to weave baskets in the rain. We learnt to grate coconut and gut fish in the rain. We learnt to prepare the meat for the lovo. In the rain. We learnt that it takes about an hour for a Fijian to badly tune a guitar missing a string, but still manage to sing in near-perfect four part harmonies at the drop of a kava bowl. That one we learnt undercover.

As can be expected, I sucked at basically all of the above activities. But it was heartening to hear my friend Donu say how smart I was as I struggled with the basket weaving, and after I took about 30 minutes to grate the flesh of half a coconut. That is, until I said ‘Really? I’m really doing this right?’ and the crowd that had gathered began to howl with laughter. No Stephen, no. You’re not doing it right. However, the most shameful experience of the weekend came from my lack of identifying the sarcasm for what it was. I blame the big friendly eyes and smiling faces that lulled me into a false sense of security. Who knew such a vindictive form of humour was simmering away underneath all the ‘bulas!’ and ‘vinakas!’ Still, great weekend. Seriously.

I would like to thank my new friends Donu and Jovi, who taught me a little about traditional village life. You guys are about as likely to read this as I am to weave a basket without strict supervision.

Fun Fact

Fiji Fact #33: It always, always rains precisely when you don’t want it to. Always.

As someone whose education has revolved around conducting research for the better part of six years, you may be surprised to know that I didn’t know everything about Fiji prior to applying for my volunteer assignment here. How much could there possibly be to know about a tiny country in the Pacific which houses a population of less than a million? Tropical beaches, perfect weather, friendly people.

You’re laughing at my own expense already, aren’t you.

It was only after I was successful in my application that I bothered to do any research on Fiji, and Suva in particular. I was completely floored when I found out that whilst the majority of Fiji enjoys sunshine nearly year round, Suva is the complete opposite. Don’t quote me (unlike Wikipedia, I’m not a reliable source), but Suva experiences something like 21 days of rain each month. Why it’s not called the London of the Pacific, I’m not sure, but it would be a fitting name. Whilst this news wasn’t enough to completely deter me from accepting the assignment, I did have a long hard think about my true motives for being here.

Perhaps fortunately, I had a taste of heavy rain and mild flooding in Toowoomba over Easter, just before mobilising. This over-prepared me (watching tents collapse and slogging through knee deep water around areas I’d seen completely submerged on the news in January probably wasn’t a necessary experience) for a day of trudging throughout Suva in the pouring rain. The aim was for our little group to get to know the layout of Suva and all the wonderful things it has to offer. And don’t get me wrong, we did just that. I basically know all the places in Suva to take cover from the rain, which is a very handy piece of knowledge to have up one’s sodden sleeve. But one piece of information/mystical power eludes me.

The locals don’t get wet. Suva doesn’t experience mild showers people: it pours. We’re in the tropics. From the time it took to walk from the Hyundai Fitness Centre (yep, I remember the names of stuff) to the main intersection and a taxi, my team and I were in the process of dissolving into primordial ooze. Yet whenever we saw locals, they appeared dry and calm, the antithesis of own skidding dashes across slippery surfaces. What’s their secret? I haven’t had the opportunity to ask. Perhaps their smiles are so dazzling the rain turns to steam before it hits their bodies. Or maybe frizzy dark hair doesn’t show moisture as well as flat brown hair matted on a white forehead, and they really are drenched. Or maybe, just maybe, the locals have the good sense not to go running in the rain.

N.B. For those of you that haven’t guessed, 33 is an arbitrary number. You haven’t missed 32 other facts on Fiji. I don’t know 32 things about this place yet. It’s been a week people.

Ode to a Nokia

We stood at the Vodafone counter in Nadi a little forlorn, sliding away our various iPhones and ‘smart’ communications devices. The friendly staff waited patiently for us, and one by one we retrieved what we’d long assumed to be nothing more than a distant memory and an ancient technology: the Nokia mobile phone (and one Samsung brick, but let’s ignore that for the time being). As each of our old phones were given new life in the form of a local sim card, the polyphonic Nokia ringtone sounded over and again, conjuring at once a feeling of both giddy sentimentality and disappointed devolution. Over the next hours and days, we would struggle with the unintuitive menu system, the lack of a touch screen and the internet at our fingertips. We would also come to revel in the lengthy battery life, the solid clunk of the keys as we tapped out messages, and the fact that hey, we’re volunteers now, and this is our first sacrifice. We’re awesome.

As with all ‘good’ pieces of writing (and I employ the word extremely loosely), that little anecdote (which happened all of five days ago) rings true in a broader sense. The other volunteers and I have now given up what could possibly be regarded as the quintessential product of the Western world – the smart phone – and gone back to our roots during our time in Fiji. We have carried all our earthly possessions in a bizarre amalgamation of suitcases, backpacks, guitar cases and oversized surfboard covers to an island in the middle of the Pacific, been thrown together in a warm and humid atmosphere to work all over the country in order to build capacity in a variety of areas. Compared to other volunteers, and indeed citizens of the world, we have it lucky: secure housing, clean water and good food, electricity, public transport, and a fair amount more than just basic infrastructure.  What we are missing is that extra little something that people of our generation in the developed world have come to rely on far too much: instant access to everything.

A case in point. Yesterday our group of volunteers were sent on a hunt through Suva to collect clues and visit landmarks in a creative attempt to help us orient ourselves within the city and grow in confidence here. One of our first clues was to search for a big blue and yellow building, which I immediately recognised (Rup’s Big Bear, home of funky furniture at bargain prices). Getting there from where we began the hunt wasn’t so simple: I had physically put my hand in my pocket to pull out my phone and consult Google Maps before I realised what I’d done, fingers closing instead on a chunky Nokia that was of little use to me.

We found the store, and quite quickly too. Chalk that up to Suva only being a small place and there being about five stores in a three kilometre radius, or own genius and quick thinking, it’s up to you (the streets can be really confusing though, way too many complex intersections and a complete disregard for your typical grid formation city layout).

This would generally be the part where I hammer the message home, but I’ve realised I don’t really have a message to impart. Embarrassing. Then again, this is a blog and not some high falutin online journal, so there doesn’t technically need to be a point. Oh no wait, I have something. Here goes.

Whilst retiring our smart phones and reviving ye olde faithful Nokia may have seemed like a painful thing during our first days here in the Feej, I get the feeling the battle has only just begun, and it rages all the way uphill. Tuning our expectations and attitudes to this place, fighting our frustrations at those expectations not being met and our attitudes not being well-received, will not be as easy as sliding a new sim card into an old phone. We may have devolved somewhat, and we may indeed face an increased risk of developing RSI, but most of us will also grow and learn once again that we can rely on ourselves and others, and that at times, we are just as likely as the internet to be right about the gestation period of elephants. So thank you, my old friend the Nokia. May you serve me well during my time in Fiji. Grow not tired, nor develop gummy keys or cracked screen, but be an indestructible slab of plastic in my hand that can be used as a weapon if all else fails.

Not bad, eh?

N.B. My own old Nokia did not in fact come out of retirement as well as I’d hoped (although I now remember why I retired it in the first place), so during my stay here, I’m using my sister’s phone. Thanks Christie!