Lost and Found

Baseball player Yogi Berra, the maestro of misquotes and muddled thinking once said “If you don’t know where you’re going, you might not get there.”

I have a terrible sense of direction. It’s embarrassing. I’ve been lost in parking lots, department stores and hotels. I can get lost in a crowd of two. I’m an avid scuba diver with more than 100 dives under my belt, but I’m always completely astounded when the dive master guides us effortlessly back to the boat. Left to my own devices, I wouldn’t be able to navigate my way around a city block in Atlantis. Kind of ironic for a guy who’s traveling the world, don’tcha think?

I was in downtown Christchurch, New Zealand, and because of all the street closings as a result of September’s big earthquake, I had to park some distance from my destination. Because I’ve had so many experiences getting helplessly, hopelessly lost, I had recently downloaded a really cool app to my iPhone made by TomTom which includes every street and alley in the entire country of New Zealand, as well as a GPS device.

I typed in “Christchurch Art Center”, and magically the directions popped up on the screen, including a little blue arrow indicating where I was. I’m a guy who is still amazed by a fax machine, so this technology is nothing sort of magic to me. In my excitement, I failed to take note of any of my surroundings, including the fact that I was parked next to a meter with a maximum time of one hour.

I dutifully followed the directions on my screen, and was so immersed in doing so, that by the time I arrived at the museum, I realized that while en route I had not been watching for any recognizable landmarks or committing any of the street names to memory. Not only that, but I had failed to mark the position of my car on the screen, so I had no way to retrace my steps. And I was absolutely clueless as to where I had parked my car.

This fact was in the forefront of my mind as I toured the exhibit, and kept nagging at me as I wondered how I’d find my way back to my car through the busy downtown city center. One of the sculptures in the exhibit was a self-portrait of the artist, about 20 times life size, and as I walked around behind the face, the head was completely empty. How fitting.

When I left the museum, I feebly retraced my steps as far as I was able. By the time I got to the general vicinity where I had parked (and by “vicinity”, I mean an area measuring approximately 1 square mile) I had absolutely no effing clue as to where my vehicle might be. I imagined myself calling the car rental company and saying “I’ve lost your car somewhere in downtown Christchurch, and I have absolutely no idea where it is. How much does it cost to rent the car for the rest of my life?”

Whenever I feel that level of panic start to rise, I take a deep breath and try to convince myself that I have no evidence to support the premise that things don’t work out. One way or another, they always do. And there’s usually a lesson to be learned and/or a funny story to tell afterwards. So I pictured myself finding my car…or not, and laughing about it later.

Suddenly it dawned on me that on my way to the Art Center, I had momentarily stopped into a store in search of a watch band. What was the name of that store? Something exotic and far away. Kinda like my car.

Kathmandu! Yeah, that was the name of the store…Kathmandu! And I had about as much chance of finding it as Timbuktu. I stopped a passerby and asked him if he knew where the store was located, and he pointed me in the right direction (which I had passed a few blocks back), but when I got there, nothing looked familiar. I wasn’t even sure it was the right Kathmandu.

So I decided to try Zen navigation, which I invented on the spot. I also invented Zen Portuguese, Zen Caricature Drawing and Zen Limbo. In each case, you simply pretend you know how to do the task at hand, and as if by magic, you can! This method is unreliable at best, and works much better when you’re relaxed and in a party atmosphere, instead of standing on a street corner in an unfamiliar city, hyper-ventilating and wondering how many hours of daylight you have left.

I walked straight to my car, which had been parked in a metered spot for 3 hours and had not been ticketed. On the up side, getting lost is a great way to get plenty of exercise, fill your bloodstream with adrenaline, meet new people and explore the unexpected!

Footnote: A couple of days later I was hiking in a fairly remote area with a guy I had met at the guest house where I was staying. We were in an overgrown creek bed, the daylight was beginning to fade, and neither of us had any idea where the trail was. Thankfully he was the German equivalent of an Eagle Scout, and managed to get us back on track. But not before he said to me “You don’t have a very good sense of direction do you?”

Nope...I don’t. But I’m good at other stuff.

Top 10 Unusual Amenities

The following is a partial list of unusual amenities I've run across in the various places I've stayed during the last 3 months:

1. A coin-operated air conditioner. $1 bought you 3 hours of cold air. Which was about the length of time it took to get the room below oven temperature. At midnight I put in $2 and used my sweat as an alarm clock.

2. A room that had the fragrance of pine-scented disinfectant and cat urine. Try as I might, I never did get used to it.

3. Air conditioners that make as much noise as an idling tractor.

4. Rooms with no windows. And rooms with windows but no glass or screens.

5. Rooms which, during a rain storm, sound like a fire-cracker factory because of all the debris falling on the tin roof.

6. Towels that smelled like they’d been used to wrap a corpse. When I requested clean towels, the new ones smelled like they’d been used to wrap a corpse that had been buried for 3 years and then exhumed.

7. Pillow cases with fresh blood stains on them.

8. A room with a nest of highly venomous sea snakes under it. I almost stepped on one about 3 feet long one night.

9. The room with sea snakes under it had a door that wouldn’t close. Needless to say I didn’t get much sleep.

10. Showers that worked only occasionally, with no predictable pattern or schedule. Showers that produced only a trickle of cold, rusty water. Showers with so much mildew growing in them that they looked like a biology experiment gone waaaay wrong. Showers where you had to bathe in the dark while standing ankle deep in stagnant water. No shower at all…so I bathed where everyone else did...in the river where the drinking water came from.

The Village People

Panting and perspiring, I entered the hamlet of Navunimono (try saying that 3 times fast!) where I was immediately ushered into a large hut, and after hasty introductions to my friend Kelera’s family, her father showed me into the main room. In the dim light, six or seven silhouetted figures were sitting cross-legged on the floor.

I was introduced to the village Chief and the other men, most of whom had Biblical names. The only problem was that by the end of the night, as more and more of the men from the village joined us, there were several Johns, Josephs, Joshuas, Isaiahs, Isaacs, and a couple of Matthews thrown in for maximum confusion.

Everyone was gathered around a large shallow bowl with four legs which contained a murky yellowish brown liquid. It became immediately apparent that I had unwittingly interrupted happy hour, except that the beverage being consumed was kava, which looks like something you wouldn't wanna step in and tastes worse.

Kava, (or "grog" as it is often referred to for reasons that will soon become apparent) is a mild sedative made from the powdered root of the yaqona plant mixed with water. I naively thought we were just a bunch of guys hanging out on a Saturday night, so I was surprised at how many rules, regulations and rituals had to be strictly observed and adhered to. It was more complicated than quantum physics.

The drill consists of one of the younger men (in this case a guy named Sela who had a permanent grin on his face and kept repeating my name at five minute intervals) pouring the liquid from the bowl into half a coconut shell which is passed in a specific order to one of the men in the circle who then gulps it down. Or in my case, holds his breath and tries to suppress his gag reflex so as not to spoil the fun by puking. It’s so hard to clean vomit out of those floor mats woven from palm leaves.

Seriously, there is nothing to recommend drinking kava, unless your idea of fun is sitting cross-legged on a hard floor for eight hours straight with no food, ingesting a foul tasting liquid that makes your tongue and fingertips go numb while trying to remember the names of all the apostles gathered around you, much less your own name. These guys could make Gandhi beg for mercy if there were a “Sitting in Lotus Position” contest. Two weeks later I still have scabs on the outsides of my feet because every time I tried to straighten my legs for some relief I received a stern reprimand from the guy sitting next to me.

My other gaffes included forgetting the Chief’s name, touching the Chief on the arm, turning my back to the Chief, forgetting the name of the village, not stooping and saying the Fijian word for “excuse me” when getting up to go to the bathroom, forgetting to say the word "Bula!"every time it was my turn to choke down a bowl of kava, and forgetting to clap three times after each drink...and reaching for the coconut shell out of turn.

Around midnight, when I could hardly stay awake and we were just about out of goofy juice, I made a desperate attempt to make up for my faux pas by pulling out the 2 lb. bag of kava I had brought with me. It was like Christmas morning. After 7 hours of strictly enforced good times and manly bonding, the musical instruments came out, and the REALLY good times began. I felt like I was being help captive in a Woody Allen movie with Fijian subtitles.

I must say, given the amount of grog these guys consumed (I threw in the towel after about 10 bowls) they could still carry a tune, sing harmony and play some mean ukelele. Finally, my host made an announcement in Fijian that I’m pretty sure amounted to “You guys don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here, ‘cause if the gringo doesn’t die from amoebic dysentery from the kava, we’ll have to use the Jaws of Life to get his legs unfolded. Besides, you guys do this every night anyway.” I finally went to bed about 2:30 a.m. despite my protests that the grandmother should not have to sleep curled up in the fetal position on the couch.

The rooster alarm started going off about 5:30 a.m., and after helping my host feed the pigs and then bathing in the river with the other guys, since it was Sunday, I donned my spiffy new sulu and bula (picture Pee Wee Herman in a black skirt and Hawaiian shirt) and headed down the path to the Methodist church.

The drums announcing the beginning of the service started pounding at 10 a.m., but folks drifted in ‘til about 10:30, by which point the inside of the church was hot enough to cook a chicken, and the sweat was dripping off the end of my nose.

The congregation was segregated….men on the left, women on the right, and children in the front. They should have just put the kids across the aisle from me so they wouldn’t have to rotate their heads 180 degrees like a bunch of owls to stare at me. Thankfully, I’ve had plenty of practice being gawked at, so I just smiled pleasantly as the sweat ran down the back of my shirt and into my sulu.

Each time I wiped my eyes I hoped I was giving the impression that I was moved to tears, but in fact I was barely clinging to consciousness by my fingernails. After two and a half hours, and what seemed like an in-depth survey of the entire Old Testament, things finally ground to a halt. And I thought the Southern Baptists could drag out a church service.

By the way, always bring underwear when visiting a Fijian village. I didn't, and while sitting cross-legged on the floor across from him at lunch, it occurred to me that flashing the Chief was probably somewhere near the top of the list of “Dont’s”. After lunch we all fell into a coma on the floor, the Chief snoring in my ear, and when I awoke, still wearing my 137% polyester sulu, soaked to the skin with sweat, it was time to go to church again.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph!! Why couldn’t the early missionaries have left these fine folks to pursue their own interests like canoe building, spear fishing, tribal warfare, kava drinking and cannibalism. Not only do these activities include a lot more exercise and spending time in the great outdoors, but eating human flesh is high in protein as well.

That said, a 20 x 40 foot cinder block building with an interior temperature approaching that of the planet Mercury creates the perfect combination of acoustics and delirium for a 60 voice Fijian congregation singing hymns in four part harmony to make a believer out of you.

After church, more food and a cup of scalding hot tea to take the edge off the heat and humidity, followed by…wait for it...another 8 hour session of kava consumption. If sleep deprivation, dehydration, a wicked kava hangover and the onset of heat stroke doesn’t make you believe in hell, nothing will.

The next morning, as I headed up the hill with the school children from the village to catch the bus, everyone came out of their huts to shake my hand, calling me by name and asking when I'd be back. As they waved goodbye and called out "MO-day", the Fijian word for goodbye, I don't think I've ever felt such a sense of inadequacy to express my gratitude for their generosity, hospitality and acceptance of me as an outsider.

So I used half of my Fijian vocabulary to say "Vinaka vakalevu!" Thank you very much!

Epilogue: I didn't get even a hiccup from the food and water I consumed while in Navunimono. I did however get a nasty case of food poisoning from an expensive Japanese restaurant where I ate a week later.

The Bus Ride

In preparation for my trip to the village, I bought some toothpaste, razors, deodorant and a small package of laundry detergent (which also functions as an hourglass as the granules leak slowly into my backpack). In typical fashion, I had neglected to pack any underwear, so after trying in vain to find some boxer shorts, I finally broke down and purchased the only other available option...some über gay briefs (not that there's anything wrong with that) which the salesman assured me were large.

Please note that these are NOT photos of the actual underwear I purchased, but they're not too far off.

If you want a good laugh, go to kittyhell.com....one man's battle against "cuteness".

Keep in mind that a SMALL Fijian man is about 6'5'' and 250 lbs., so I was a little surprised at the salesman's assessment of my underwear needs (but also very proud). After returning to the guest house, I put them on and in about 10 minutes my legs had gone completely numb from lack of circulation, so apparently he had mistaken me for an large adolescent girl.

Off we went on our journey, about 2 hours awa

y on a cro

wded bus with our bags on our laps. About halfway there, we stopped at a bus depot, where I ran in search of a bathroom, which to my delight was only one notch below what you might expect at the Four Seasons Hotel.

Please note: This IS an actual photo of the bathroom at the bus depot in Nausori.

When I emerged from the bathroom, feeling greatly relieved, I realized that there were about 20 identical buses at the depot, and that I had failed to take note of any identifying characteristics which would enable me to find the one I arrived on. I began to walk amongst the crowded vehicles, searching for a familiar face, or a sign of my new friend. After making several frantic passes through the busy parking lot, and almost getting crushed between two moving buses, I began to panic.

Suddenly I remembered that I had left my bag on the dashboard of the bus, which would make it easy to spot. So I dashed between the buses again, half of which had left since I began my search and had been replaced by incoming buses. No luck.

I didn’t have a clue what to do next, but I took a deep breath and decided that whatever happened, including losing my stuff and my friend and having to somehow make it back to the city, it was gonna be alright, and that at the very least, I’d have a story to tell. I had already started to chuckle to myself at the ridiculousnosity of my situation, when she came dashing up and told me that the bus had moved about three blocks down the street. If nothing else, I was able to confirm that my adrenal glands are still working.

As we ran down the street towards the waiting bus, Kelera decided that this would be a good time to buy some bread. We ducked into a shop, where she hemmed and hawed over what to get, and by the time we made our purchase and got to the bus, I got the feeling from the driver’s facial expression that I hadn’t done much to cement foreign relations.

The rest of our trip was uneventful, and when we stepped off the bus onto the deserted highway, there was not a village in sight..only a red dirt road, and a lush green landscape of trees, vines and palms with leaves that looked like giant ferns, drenched in the amber light of late afternoon.

I neglected to mention that before we left Suva we went grocery shopping, so in addition to the pack containing my personal belongings (approximate weight 13 pounds), I was lugging 4 liters of water (approximate weight 10 pounds), 2 pounds of powdered kava (more on that later) and miscellaneous other provisions.

Not knowing whether we had a hundred yards or 10 miles to hike, I decided not to ask, and just embrace the moment. Within the first 30 seconds, the plastic bag containing the bottles of water began to slowly and painfully amputate the fingers of my right hand, and I started to wonder whether we really needed the mostly thawed frozen chicken I was toting.

Just as the sun dropped behind a hill and the light began to fade, the the village came into sight, and I was greeted with mute stares and a few shy waves from children who had never seen an albino before.

Embracing Randomness

Right now I'm reading a book called Vagabonding: The Art of Long Term World Travel by Rolf Potts. One of the author's recurring admonitions is to view "mishaps" as an opportunity for discovery....a way of finding out where the unexpected will lead. Embrace randomness.

Several days ago my friend Deb and I arrived in Fji, and after dropping off our bags at the hotel, we went into town to find some flip flops (who else besides me would take off for the South Pacific and forget to pack flip flops?!) and after making my purchase I asked the shopkeeper to recommend a pub which catered to locals. I

fully expected to be disappointed by some l

ocal version of The Hard Rock Cafe, but as

we strolled into "Club Nadi" I was delighted to discover that we were the only kaivalagis there.

Deb was the only woman in the joint, but she's nothing if not a good sport, so we decided to stay. We struck up a conversation with a couple of guys at a nearby table, and several adult beverages later, one of them accompanied us to a nearby Indian restaurant so we wouldn't get lost.

On a subsequent visit to our now favorite pub, we were introduced to the chief of one of the outlying villages, as well as his daughter and son-in-law.

The chief was very jovial and invited me to come stay at his home whenever I wanted. I was excited by the prospect of seeing what life was like in a Fijian

village , so I eagerly accepted his invitation and arranged to meet him later that week after Deb returned to the States.

On the day of my departure, my internal compass told me to stop by the pub one last time before heading to the airport.

As luck would have it, the guy who took us to the Indian restaurant was there and told me that the "chief" was not who he claimed to be, but in fact a con-man who lured unsuspecting tourists to the other side of the island, got them to pay for a bunch of "groceries" before boarding a ferry which, according to my guide book, could take anywhere from two hours to four days, and then ditched them once they arrived.

Since I had already paid for the plane ticket, I decided to board the flight to Suva anyway. In the spirit of Vagabonding, one of my mantras is "embrace randomness".

During the 30 minute flight, I surveyed the list of places to stay in my guide book, and randomly chose a guest house with the auspicious name "Nanette's Accommodation".

I showed up on the doorstep at 8 o'clock at night without a reservation and the girl at the front desk told me

there were no vacancies. She reiterated this 5 or 6 times while pointing to the reservation book...until a random guy loitering around the parking lot insisted that there was space available.

I was eventually led upstairs to a spacious room, which, in sharp contrast to previous accommodations on this trip, had towels that were dry and didn't smell like mildew, pillowcases without fresh blood stains and a private hot shower instead of communal room with no door and a single faucet trickling cold, rust-colored water onto a slimy floor that can only be described as a biology experiment gone wrong. I had hit the jackpot.

I was delighted to learn that the room was only $50.00/night and

includes breakfast. It also includes a pack of dogs that barks round the clock, a

gaggle of college students from across the street that hoots and hollers 'til the wee hours and a

rooster that starts cockle-doodle-doing about 4 in the morning. If I can find that damn bird we're gonna have chicken pot pie for dinner.

The only other person at breakfast the next morning was a British guy named Howard. We struck up a conversation about what had brought each of us to Fiji. He's here doing marine conservation for South Pacific Projects, a non-profit organization he founded to protect the eco-system on the reefs

As soon as I told him I was a photographer, he asked if I'd be willing to consider photo-documenting his project in exchange for a couple of weeks of free room and board on a private island, diving in crystal blue water on pristine reefs teeming with exotic fish and coral in one of the most beautiful and inaccessible locations on the planet, oh...and a possible side trip to meet the King of Fiji's grandson. Our father who art in heaven, Howard be thy name.

After breakfast, I took a stroll through town. My first stop was a church with an enormous sanctuary, empty except for 4 or 5 people. I took a seat for a few minutes to collect my thoughts and plan my route, and before I knew it I had drifted off....until I awoke to the sound of a hymn that I recognized from childhood being sung in Fijian in perfect harmony by three women sitting nearby. A fitting benediction...my decision to come to Suva was working out just fine.

Another stop on my self-guided tour was the Fiji Museum which featured an exhibit detailing the story of a missionary who was invited for dinner by some locals back in the 1800's. Apparently he failed to understand that he WAS dinner. All that was left were the bottoms of his shoes, which were on display in the glass case. Apparently he must have said something about "saving souls".

Here at the guest house are two girls who work the front desk, make our breakfast, clean our rooms and provide an overall atmosphere of cheerfulness and hospitality. Turns out they're cousins, and I overheard them talking about going home to their village for the weekend.

Undaunted in my quest to find a real Fijian chief and experience life in a village, I brashly invited myself home with them. They seem as excited as I do. Apparently the last kaivalagis seen entering their village were a couple of Peace Corps workers about 20 years ago.

Maybe I'll ask if I should bring something for dinner.