Red.Jungle.F☆wl

Rrrrraaaarrrr

2007-12-15T19:36:00.001-08:00

Rrrrraaaarrrr. I am the Museum of Science.

Finals are over with, and my head is now out of the sand. Pardon the long silence as classes and life took over every waking minute. Stay tuned!!

Silence

2007-10-05T23:48:00.001-07:00

Summer Madness

Even after almost three years of being back in the States, I still find certain things hard to adjust to. Stress is one of those items. The US is all about time lines, deadlines, coffee, rush hour, cell phones, Blackberries, iPods, wireless internet, mass transportation, and RockStar. Thinking about it makes my blood pressure go up.

Maybe it is living in the city. Alaska was quiet. Hiland Mountain was quiet.

I grew up on a mountain away from pretty much everything. In retrospect, it was glorious, but one of those things unappreciated with youthful wants. No neighbors. No Mormons. No Girl Scouts. No crazy people spitting foam on you as you walk to the T. Just you, the mountain, and the occasional moose and bear.

Standing in the woods while the light white snow falls is the most serene moment man can experience.

Second only to lying on the mountainside in a purple crumpled sled as the Northern Lights shimmer and dance, and bask you in their sea green glow.

I miss the mountains. I miss the peace.

Neglect

2007-10-03T19:48:00.001-07:00

RedSox Crowd

I have been neglecting my blog. It is an unhealthy relationship really. I say "you're so fat", and it says "love me for what I am". Then I go and drink beer. It is a vicious cycle.

I am back in the graduate school grind and it is killing me. I have four classes, Macroeconomics, Negotiations, Infrastructure and Finance, and Italian. Why Italian? Send me an email, and we will talk.

Negotiations is great. It is described as the art of convincing other people to have it your way. We have class lectures and role-play scenarios. It is a bit intense. Some people cry, some people make enemies. I lie. A lot. Yesterday I said "$25 is my break even point. I honestly can't go below that. Business is not about paying to do other's work." My bottom line was $10, we settled at $25. Bwahaha.

Harvard is a trip. Sometimes the tweed and wool is a bit too much for me. I have a ghetto side that is always trying to go to class in cargo shorts and Crocs, but inevitably the person I sit next to is an international world leader or hack politician on sabbatical. Then I feel bad. Just a little bit.

I recently went suit shopping, a sign that I am officially caving to the man. Sigh. My negotiation lessons didn't pay off while I stood in front of the mirrors. Suit salesmen are worse than used car salesmen. A used car salesman appeals to your ego but a suit salesman appeal to your vanity in irrefutable ways.

Back to my Italian.

The Longest Sunday

2007-09-13T21:41:00.001-07:00

9:23 Traveling Blues

The Longest Sunday

My Sunday, September 9th, 2007 lasted exactly 45 hours. Twice I ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner, read a current Sunday newspaper, saw a sunrise, and caught a 10 pm flight. But only once did I sleep. Crossing the dateline never gets old.

I am glad to be back in the States. The lack of marshal law and threat of a military crack down really eases the daily tension, although the US newspapers are comparatively boring. The Bill of Rights is a powerful document, often taken for granted by our good citizens. I wish to celebrate my return to this great land by exercising my freedom of speech, without fear of reprisal or being hauled away to the military barracks. Commodore Frank Bainimarama is a giant tool and his military junta is a joke, excellent only at personifying ignorance, incompetence, and sheer stupidity. I pity the people of Fiji as much as a laugh at the interim government’s childish charade of politics, or even their attempt at speaking in complete sentences without drooling. I would go on with my criticism, but shooting fish in a barrel does get old… eventually.

Sorry. I have had to get that out of my system for the past three months. I feel a lot better.

I had a great summer though. Personally, just experiencing the contrast between Fiji and Vanuatu was a summer in itself. I enjoyed the food and the colorful contribution of the Indian influence. I loved the beaches, and sunsets. I learned the ukulele and even enjoyed AFN. Tokyo was amazing. My internship was a success. Overall it was a grand summer. And then came LAX. Again.

LAX is purgatory incarnate. Its mission on earth is to break the will of even the most patient Zen master traveler, reducing him to a sobbing wreck incapable of using the toilet unassisted. The most effective weapon at its disposal: the belief that landing on the runway after a 10 hour flight means that you have arrived at your destination. The plane lands, and sits. Inches its way to “gate” 202, actually a concrete outpost two miles away from the terminal. The passengers load the cattle buses, and wait. And then comes the gauntlet of immigration, baggage claim, and customs. Ellis Island, except for empty revolving baggage carousels with hordes of hollow eyes matching the speed of the creaking circulating belt.

The blow below the belt is the following flight connection mayhem. Wow to the poor bastard who wishes to leave LAX’s fatal shores. I chose Delta, the wrong choice if anyone is interested. I finally broke down yelling at an outsourced call center attendant concerning my airmiles. She had it coming. Delta had it coming.

But I am alive. My girlfriend surprised me and picked me up at the airport. It made the pain and suffering of airplane food, a sunburn, LAX and Delta worth it. It is good to be home, and I can’t wait for this Sunday.

Alive and Well, Sort Of

2007-09-01T21:26:00.001-07:00

Peace in the East

Two weeks ago I attended a leadership conference in Tokyo made up of students from MIT, Harvard, and the University of Tokyo. More correctly, I was swallowed by one of the world's craziest cities and excreted 10 days later with dehydration, blood shot eyes, and a new vocabulary of less-than-wholesome Japanese words. That place is ridiculous.

The organization is STeLA (Science and Technology Leadership Association), an international collaboration of students, professors, and concerned citizens who are pissed off that Harvard Business School is at the forefront of leadership development when it is shouldered by the blood sweat and tears of lab types. Basically, we believe that world problems such as climate change, energy security, and globilization are complex and daunting, requiring a sophisticated network of scientists, policy makers, politicians, and academics to solve them, utilizing cutting edge science and technology.

But back to Tokyo. If you have never been there, life can simply be summed up by the phrase "vending machine". I truly believe it is the symbolic key to understanding the Tokyo way. I submit to you several case studies to underscore this belief, and leave the verdict to you. How democratic.

Case #1: The question of Space. Tokyo doesn't have the luxury of elbow room. Walmarts and Safeways are out of the question. To solve this problem, space-saving technology is applied, affordable only because the crush of high-density makes it so. Enter the high tech vending machine. You could have a corner store, a flower shop, or a soup stand, or you could have a 2x3 ft box to administer the public. Problem solved.

I want to expand a bit on the affordability aspect. In the States, we have huge refrigerators, huge SUVs and huge houses by which to store food. Have you seen Over The Hedge? Tokyo apartments are on the tiny scale. Space is in fact a huge cost. American style consumerism is not physically possible. This cost of space also makes things like flat-screen tvs and brainy toilets affordable, and supplies the innovation behind Sony's crazy new miniscule gadgets. I believe this question of space also shows itself in Japanese automakers and their new dominance over American counterparts. The question of size was never a financial burden to the US, until the recent petroleum cost crunch. Tiny is not cute and expensive. Tiny is cost-saving and neccesary.

Case #2: The question of Public Health. There are a lot of people in Tokyo. If I understood my Japanese friend correctly though his poor english, burial is illegal in Tokyo and cremation is mandatory, not for the space but for the elimination of disease outbreak. Water fountains or non-existant, for instance. If Shibuya had a water fountain, I wouldn't use it, not when it is exposed to several hundred thousand people a day. Bottled water, and clean sanitation, are solved with the sterile, plastic goodness delivered with a vending machine.

Case #3: The question of Convenience. Tokyo is in a rush. Everyone is a slave to work and train schedules, so time is of the essence. Like a lot of cities, most jobs are in Tokyo, but few actually live there, but only on a much larger scale than say Boston. Vending machines fill in this time crunch. Work hard, travel hard, refresh hard from one of many many choices in food and drink.

Case #4: The question of Social Acceptance. Vending machines can only be ubiquitous, located in every remote and lonely corner only because society allows them to be. Vandalism, for instance, is not a problem as it is in the States. If I put a Coke machine in Harvard Square, I guarantee you that it would last maybe half a day before being covered in graphitti or drug down the road with chains. I propose this says something about the social structure of Tokyo: respectful and collective, as opposed to violent and fiercely independent.

And there you have it. Four questions that when thought through, reveal a lot about life in one of the most ridiculous, fun, and safe cities in the world.

Ephesians 4:22

2007-08-08T05:37:00.001-07:00

Melken Feet

I learned something about myself this weekend. It was profound, it was life changing, I cried. You see, Friday was my birthday. I turned 27 and once again I was gone. Its my own fault, I really need to plan to be somewhere cool next year for my birthday, like working for the State Department at Embassy Vegas.

I do feel like I am getting old, that I need to “grow up” and quit being a perpetual intern, or a student, or drifter without a permanent address. But this wasn’t the revelation I received. No, it was something else, something about my past.

Earlier in the day I bumped into a Peace Corps Fiji volunteer. I had rented a car for the weekend and was heading out west, and so was he, so I offered him a ride. Plus I had no idea where my hostel was, so really he was my navigator, little did he know. So I pick him up at 1:30. I was late because my instant noodles weren’t so instant, and off we went. 5 hours we sat in the car together and talked, mostly about the differences and similarities between Peace Corps Fiji and Peace Corps Vanuatu. They are pretty similar, except for the whole cell phones and free texting thing.

It is a little embarrassing, but even after such a long car ride, I don’t know his name. It is something like Padmere, or Pahmadal, P-something. I am horrible with names, but never forget a face.

So, five hours later we get to where I was dropping him off at…. a Peace Corps party. I got out and joined the fun, only to have wicked flash backs of my two years of service. My revelation was this: Peace Corps volunteers are friggin filthy dirty pigs. Dear Lord. I remember it all too well. All the classic arch types were at this party. There was the guy who gave up wearing shoes two years ago and now had hobbit feet and nail fungus, but thought it to be a mark of hardcore cultural transition. There was the girl who hadn’t shaved legs or pits for the same length of time. All the guys had nasty facial hair. The girl with dreads, the guy who didn’t wear pants, the hippy volunteer couple in the corner who hooked up during training. And then the afflictions: boils, tropical infections, ace bandages and iodine everywhere, stitches, the broken finger, and of course the substantial scaring. And the body odor. The place reeked.

And the “house” was a pit hole. Pit. Hole. I literally tried to not touch anything, and at one point, moved a pile of soiled underwear off a chair with a stick. The stick was in the house. And this is what I reveled in before. I lived the dream. And now I have come full circle, back to where I started. Poking dirty piles of soiled underwear with a stick.

“Long beards worn by certain classes of the society are a sign of savagery and disorder – a symbol of degeneration” – The Rastafarians

It seems to be a common trait of volunteers. You enter as a clean cut semi-professionally dressed individual ready to serve your country and the people of your host nation. You leave with matted hair, facial scars and hotty eyes, looking down on the disconnected people back home.

And you stink. But that means you are hardcore.

And this was my revelation. It took the gloss off my memories, and gave me a vantage point by which to look back at experiences, to stare back at my inner latent dirty friggin beast and to see what social constructs had re-caged it. And then decided it was probably better, and having lived the dream, I can now move on with my life, shave once in a while, and use deodorant.

I am 27. I once had the nastiest, greasiest matted flaming red beard you have ever seen in your life. And I am ok with that.

Let There Be Light

2007-07-30T04:00:00.001-07:00

Cathedral

So tonight I was going through some of my photos on my laptop and decided to try out my wireless, just for fun. Imagine my surprise when I instantly get online. I just blew my own mind for the next decade.

Seriously, I am surrounded by palm trees and ramshackle dwellings, I was almost eaten by a pack of wild dogs outside my gate, and I get three out of four green bars.

Another proof of the modern world progressing into the far reaches of the planet. I went to a Peace Corps Fiji training session, and a volunteer's cell phone went off. Peace Corps subsidizes phones for all the volunteers, and texting is free.

I wanted to cry. I didn't bring up the time I was on the Port Morseby Embassy's missing persons list because I was trapped between two raging flooded rivers for four days following Cyclone Ivy, and subsequently had to hike slash swim my way to the nearest urban center, 20 hours by foot away.

Or the time I had dengue fever and after days of writhing in pain in my hut, managed to hike 8 hours to the nearest teleradio to go see a doctor, ten days later,

But I digress.

The buzzword at KSG, that lofty Harvard institution, is "technology leapfrogging". Developing countries take advantage of new technology, thus bypassing antiquated infrastructure, such as telephone lines. You really can't beat the application of cell phones in these rural communities. Its cheap, its reliable, and you can put a tower just about anywhere. And last night an island mama won a Smart Car by texting in her answer to the week's trivia question.

There are problems with this concept, however. Sometimes technology is not applicable, or sustainable, to rural and developing settings. Thus the barrier of renewable energy technology. PV systems are the darling of the Pacific, only because nothing else works.

Last weak I had a meeting with a Fijian regional energy worker and he had some interesting thoughts on "access", another energy buzzword. Basically, one measure to assess a countries technological development is to tally what percentage of the population has access to modern forms of energy supply. But in his view, this misses a huge point, the question of practicality.

The classic example is a village on an outer island getting solar systems for lighting. Two years go by, and with the newly discovered possibilities of electricity discovered, the village wants something bigger and better. They want a washing machine. Unfortunately home solar systems can't power a washing machine, so the village buys a generator (and washing machine) and bring them both back to the village. The generator goes in a hut, and the washing machine goes underneath a palm tree. The community buys fuel on the next island over, but with the cost of diesel, the boat ride over spends more fuel than they bring back in barrels, so only one trip is made. And the village is broke anyway after buying the washing machine and generator. So the machine gets used for a week, then the generator runs dry, and both sit around rusting for a few months until someone raises enough money to go buy fuel again.

True story. In the Federated States of Micronesia.

As this same gentleman stated, "People are no longer satisfied with light bulbs".

In my mind, living on an outer island in the South Pacific quickly sheds light on what is sustainable and what is not. Our energy system infrastructure, for instance, not sustainable. Dodge V10s are currently being shipped to American Samoa. But are these things in the island setting really that different than in Alaska, Colorado, or Boston? The only difference really is time. The realities of society, while taking decades to play out in the States, take a week in Micronesia. I really don't need a Landcruiser. But I want a Landcruiser. And it will break down in a few years, and sit in my lawn in the Valley, and rust away. But like those poor citizens on the outer islands of Micronesia with their rusty washing machine underneath the palm tree, I too want my Landcruiser. I am not content with lightbulbs.

Wild Wild PNG (Part 1)

2007-07-19T03:21:00.001-07:00

Clear My Mind

Papua New Guinea. PNG. That place is ridiculous.

So the Pacific is broken up into three distinct ethnicities and culture types. The Micronesians (think Palau), the Polynesians (Hawaii, Samoa, Tonga, etc), and the Melanesians. Melanesia is comprised of 5 countries; Vanuatu, the Soloman Islands, New Caledonia, parts of Fiji, and PNG.

The Melanesians expanded into the Pacific from PNG. If you look at a map, you could probably draw out the eastward migration fairly intuitively. As such, a lot of the Melanesian countries share very similar cultures, language, and heritage. But none compare to the depth and richness of PNG.

It is a very large country in comparison to the other Pacific Islands, with an abundance of natural resources and an exploding population.

And an abundance of guns. We are not talking about pistols and breech loading shotguns your great-great-grandfather used to tote around shooting squirrels (although there are those….the guns, not the squirrels). Assault rifles, AK-47’s, probably even an occasional rocket launcher are all roaming the streets, no big deal. The guard at McDonalds carries one. Your mom, if she were in PNG, would carry one.

PNG shares a border with Indonesia, and the theory goes that guns are smuggled in for food.

Every one in the Pacific is scared of PNG. Rascals, as man PNG are called, are notorious for gang and tribal firefights. It’s not that they target foreigners, but collateral damage (interpret as plump red Alaskan ambling down the street) is not avoided. Look out for cross-fire.

Master Bruce, a friend of mine in Vanuatu who runs plantations for a living, was caught in one of these street wars. He’s walking to the bank and a couple of guys get mowed down, the window behind him shatters everywhere and cuts him up. No big deal.

Seriously. There is a website, www.sleepinginairports.com which goes through the airports of the world and rates them for comfort, amenities, and safety. Port Moresby is the winner of the 2005 Poopy Airport Award (the prestigous ranking for the world's worst airport), with quotes such as "I can only imagine that this place was safer when the Americans and Japanese were bombing it in world war two"

One traveler gives Port Moresby two skull-and-cross-bones, owing to the fact that while standing in line to get his boarding pass, a firefight erupts between the guards and a local gang and seven (yes, seven) people are shot dead in front of him. He grabs his boarding pass and, slipping in blood, catches his airplane. No big deal.

The post was later removed by the moderator as it was not relavent to the sleeping ammenities of the airport.

Vinaka Vakalevu

2007-07-14T22:32:00.001-07:00

Vinaka Vakalevu

I ate at McDonalds today. Yeah, that’s right. And I don’t care what you think. I had a cheeseburger meal. In America, McDonalds is all about exploiting the worker and getting you a product based on unsustainable, heinous business and agricultural practices. In Fiji, it is all about great jobs for responsible youth and taking pride in your product. My beef was organic. My fries, golden brown.

Sad to say but I did get sick afterwards. A fruit and vegetable diet is not friends with grease, not matter how quality.

There are public health warnings going out all over Suva. Sickness is rampant and the hospitals are advising everyone to take special precautions. Not Dengue Fever, not a malaria outbreak. Cold weather. With temperatures dipping into the … wait for it … 70’s, the public is being advised to “drink plenty of warm fluids” and to bundle up, as viral sickness from chill is on the rise. Maybe it’s true? I don’t feel sick. Or cold.

I’ll admit, it is too cold to use my pool. I am a pool snob. If the water isn’t boiling, I’m not getting in. I’ll dip my big toe, look down my nose through my dark sunglasses, and saunter off back to my lounge chair.

Today I went to the Suva Expo, something akin to a small town fair. Booths hawking salad shooters inside, rides for the kids outside, and plenty of street meat food. Bubbles the Clown even made an appearance. As I navigated my way through the packed aisles, avoiding the (shudder) Island Dress fashion show made up of 300 lb. island mamas, I noticed something rather peculiar. All of the ethnicities of Fiji were mingling, laughing, enjoying themselves in close quarters. The Chinese stall was next to the Indian stall was next to the Fijian stall, and they were all busy with mixed crowds. For a moment, it looked like Fiji was the poster-child country for peace and harmony amidst a very diverse population of very different cultures.

Violence against Indians has become a real problem in the past several years. One guy I know has been beat up at least four times, breaking his jaw, arm, and a few ribs. He states that when he sees a group of male Fijians coming towards him on the road, he crosses to the other side. If they cross the road, he runs. Strange, because he follows this comment with “I don’t want to leave Fiji, Fijians are nice”. It’s true, and completely bizarre, because individually, everyone is really very nice.

To a visitor, Suva does look ethnically mixed, and relaxed. But there are subtle signs of the tension that is latent. A majority of the beggars and homeless are Indian. A lot of the recent robberies have targeted Indians and Indian businesses. Fijians all use the public fields for rugby at a certain time, then Indians use it for soccer at another time.

I could digress into a lengthy discussion about modern nation states and the implications for race relations, but I will save it, for another time when maybe someone has interest.

Bubbles the Clown. That guy is ridiculous.

Of Lanyards and AFN

2007-07-12T03:51:00.001-07:00

Don’t hate me because I’m red and beautiful. I know you do. It hurts me. Deep.

I have decided that working at an embassy is a lot similar to your office job, except mine is behind bars, and guards, and road blocks. I still use Outlook. I still procrastinate around the coffee pot, and take the stairs instead of the elevator. Friday is dress casual, or Bula Day. Like Hawaiian Shirt Day, except for real.

There are a lot of differences, however. I can’t tell you what they are, but believe you me.

I watch a lot of Armed Forces Network. AFN is like regular TV, except run by the four branches of the military. There are no commercials, Joe doesn’t believe in that civilian puke. AFN fills the empty spaces with military related interest pieces and public service announcements. Every 10 minutes I’m watching Strykers blow crap up, some guy in camo playing ball with little Iraqi children, and Lt. Johnson giving me a rundown on why military research has made this world a better place. Just look at GPS units, originally developed for the military, now helping fire trucks save lives. Go Joe.

I watch a lot of AFN Sports, which is actually really depressing as the normal AFN commercials are replaced with those targeting male soldiers ages 18 to 21. Hour after hour of being warned, shocked, and scared out of behavioral misconduct. From now on I will never 1) shake my baby, 2) drink and drive, 3) hit my wife, 4) grab my fellow female sailor’s ass, 5) or drive without my seat belt. I believe in courage, freedom and liberty, and will "Get the right spirit".

Come to find out, I hate the BBC. Maybe it used to be a credible news agency but has since sold its soul to sensationalism, elbowing CNN and FoxNews out of the way on the paved road to hell.

If I have to watch another interview with that well-spoken bald reporter who was freed from Gaza, next to his cute family in the villages of rural Britain, I am going to impale myself on this huge universal remote.

Maybe I hate the BBC because they are so righteously anti-American. It’s OK to be critical of the US in the media, but not if you are a news caster with a British accent. Because then you just sound smug.

I have a neck lanyard for my ID. That is something new in my life that I didn’t see coming. I am finding that lanyards add a bit of danger to the usually mundane work-a-day routine. Doors, urinals, absent minded coworkers, safes, photo copiers, coat racks, lunch meals and paper-shredders all must be dealt carefully with.

Maybe the faint of heart would cower under such potential threats in the over-seas work environment. Not me however. Danger is my middle name.

More Than Meets The Eye

2007-07-07T18:53:00.000-07:00

This week has been the week of South Pacific nostalgia. For better or worse.

Flash back after flash back, all with a new cultural context that I find very interesting.

The classic is the first question people ask. "Are you married?" followed by the surprised whistle when I tell them that no, I am not. Either my ripe old age of 26 or my shocking good looks just don’t compute to me not having a passel of children and a pregnant wife.

The marriage question always leads to scheming. Fortunately, I have ample experience in dodging island matrimony traps, no matter how cleverly laid. For you taking notes, several rules will always see you through. Avoid being alone with women, keeping your man shield on standby at all times. Don’t accept food from young single women, especially if the food comes in pairs, e.g. two coconuts. Randomly bring up your serious girl-friend in America that is planning on visiting the island soon. For extra points, add that she was once on the American national net-ball squad, and only quit to pursue her career as the lead singer in America’s first all-female string band, currently touring in Japan. And most importantly, never, under no circumstances, ever receive a pig as a present without first consulting the ramifications with a trusted local friend.

To current girlfriend: if in the distant future you meet any of my island friends, be prepared to understand the fundamentals of netball, and make references to how you "dominated those tipskins from France". Gel Pentecost is your favorite string band song. You play the tambourine to complement your fine rendition of said song. I love you.

The farmer’s market in Suva is glorious. A maze running between stacks of bananas and piles of taro. The Indian influence adds brilliant red and green chilis, and exotic spices. One of my fondest memories about the South Pacific is the abundance of quality fruit and vegetables. It has been hard in the States. As a financially struggling grad student in New England, I quickly learned that I purchase what economists would call "inferior goods", and definitely little fresh produce. I am living it up while I can. Last night I had yams boiled in coconut milk, with a whole cucumber on the side. In another life I was a 300 lb. island mama.

One bonus to my current time in the tropics is not being a daily slave to Doxicycline. As such, I no longer vomit in the mornings and my beautiful red skin isn’t so red. I actually think I am getting tan. Tears are rolling down my bronzen cheeks. That’s right. Bronzen.

A major difference between Vanuatu and Fiji is that people here know where Alaska is. And then they freak out with questions about the cold weather and great fishing. Apparently, just like in the States, many people day-dream about going to Alaska to fish.

Rugby is another major difference. In Vanuatu, soccer reigns in every village, on every dusty playground, and down every shady alley. I didn’t see one rugby ball the entire 2.5 years I was in country. In Fiji, however, soccer is rugby’s little sister. Church is on Sunday, rugby is on Saturday, and every evening and during most free time. The entire second half of the daily papers is somehow related to rugby, unless something major has occurred, in which case it is the entire front half, with news about coups, Fijian peacekeepers in Iraq, and the gloomy outlook for kava exports being relegated to the last half.

Yesterday I was stuck waiting for a bus in a resortish area outside of Suva. With full knowledge of my actions and the hell that awaited me, I entered a few souvenir shops. I was curious, and really bored ok? Fiji has a proud history of being exceptionally brutal, with tribal warfare and cannibalism scaring off western contact till late, compared with other South Pacific countries. It is impressive to look at their past hill forts and war relics. In particular, the war club dominates these artifacts, and now, the trinket shops.

"Hallo hallo, welkam. Where you fram?"

Ahhh the US

"Ohh, which state?"

Alaska

"OHHH cold place no? Too cold, I can’t believe people live there. Are you married...?"

Hmmmm

"This is local shop, with quality souvenir, I give you local discount."

Sweet. So what is that? (pointing to menacing hooked club)

"That is a Hooked Neck Breaker, and the one next to it is a Barbed Vertebrae Killer."

Oooooh, and that one?

"That is a walking stick."

Ah yes

"Look at this photo of my fatha, he is dressed in kastom, doesn’t he look nice?"

Yes, but holy *&#@ what is he holding?

"Oh, that is a Brainbasher, but don’t worry, he never used it."

And so it went. One thing I have noticed is that a lot of Fijians are absolutely huge, abnormally fit with rippling muscles and giant man-hands. To see one approaching me with a Hooked Neck Breaker would probably cause some sort of self wetting. During WW2 it was said that the Allies had a secret weapon in the Pacifc; Man Fiji. Literally drop some off in the jungle on a Japanese-inhabited island, and the Japanese would "disappear" in a few days.

This past war-like culture has been transplanted with a seemingly peaceful Christian culture, a complete reversal that is still counter intuitive, similar to walking around Vanuatu and passing gangs of men swinging machetes and waiving hello, or seeing the men in my village, covered with pig tusk wounds and wild bull gore scars cradling their children. Gentle giants.

Suva has an 8-screen movie theatre. And tonight, I am off to see Transformers. I must admit, when I heard that Transformers was coming out this summer, and I was to be in Fiji, I was a little sad. My childhood was being brought to the big screen, and I was to miss it. But, as Suva is not your typical South Pacific city, I am going to revel in the age-old battle of good versus evil personified in robots from outer space. I am getting misty-eyed thinking about it.

That is all for now.

3am Champaign

2007-06-30T02:11:00.000-07:00

My apologies for the delay in posting. Maybe some of you were worried…. yes? Worried, anybody? Grandma?

I find myself in an interesting position. The political situation here is tense and rather sensitive. Also, my work, while not classified per se, has many areas that I could reveal too much information inadvertently and be terminated. Interns do not have much recourse, or institutional patience. For safety, I am not going to speak much of work or politics, and stick to mundane issues, such as love, life, and string band.

Upon leaving LA, I found myself on a 10 hour flight to Nadi, Fiji. If you have never crossed the International Date Line, let me tell you, it can be trippy. Sunday, June 22nd, 2007 never existed for me. Gone. I left LA on Saturday night, and landed Monday morning a little tired, and again very hungry. I have to ask, did I miss anything on Sunday? Good thing it isn’t football season.

So maybe I wasn’t too hungry. We were served breakfast at 3 am, with Champaign. The couple in front of me were getting married in Fiji. They finished a bottle.

I have traveled Air Pacific several times before, and distinctly remember the breakfast. Three years later, and still the same eggs, sausage, and mushrooms. I fear there is a warehouse somewhere with a decade’s supply that simply needs water added and nuked.

My least favorite aspect of international travel: walking through immigration, past the guards and blast doors, into the shark tank of cab drivers and touts.

As an intern, traveling 8,000 miles from Anchorage to Suva, I figure that someone, anyone, would come to pick me up. Hell, even an embassy golf cart would be fine. I don’t mind figuring it out my self, truthfully. It is having to battle the feeding frenzy as you stand there, unsure if a ride is coming, or if you are looking for someone, that I mind. This leaves you, the awkward greenhorn, at the mercy of the jilted cabbies.

"You need a ride?" No. "Is someone coming to pick you up?" Yes. "Who?" Friends.
And you wait.

"You sure your friends know what flight you came in on?" Yes. "Because you know, this was the only flight of the day." Yes. "And you were late, so they should be here." Sigh.

And you shuffle defeated to the money changer.

"Ah, you do need a ride." Yes. "I see you changed your money." Yes. "How much did you change?" Enough. "Ok ok, just making sure, no worries friend. Where to?"

And you humbly get the cab ride into town, which you secretly enjoy, because driving with locals beats the American option any day. This is a sage Peace Corps lesson, kiddies. Make conversation with cabbies. They love telling you about their city.

Unless you are in the US, of course. Or Kenya, so I hear.

Fiji is a fascinating melting pot. First there are the indigenous Fijians, the land owners and historical residents of Fiji. Next are the Indo-Fijians. In the late 19th century, Britain needed cheap labor for the sugar cane plantations, and shipped Indians over in bulk to work 5 year contract. Most ended up staying, as Fiji offered respite from caste systems, overcrowding, etc. Next are ethnic minorities, such as Solomon Islanders, Polynesians, Tongans, and Micronesians. The Chinese also live in Fiji, often immigrating to start businesses and stores. Last are the ex-pats, who come from anywhere in the world, and especially from Australia and New Zealand.

My previous experience in the South Pacific was in Vanuatu, which has a comparatively uniform ethnicity except for Port Vila and Luganville. It is strange to be in an almost identical environment but have such a completely different cultural context. One issue that quickly becomes apparent is land rights. In the Pacific, land is scarce and valuable, socially politically and economically. In Vanuatu, land disputes are very frequent and extremely contentious, as old tribal methods of division are being updated to modern times. In Fiji, the issue of land and a huge influx of relatively new cultures, many of which have thousands of people, brings a whole new element into the mix, and indeed is the root cause of much of the current political turmoil. Minority rights and involvement in the government process.

Another issue, I’m finding, is applying democracy and Western style government to cultures with rich political and governmental histories, based on completely different principles. Chief systems for example.

It has been a busy week. A crash course in diplomacy, politics, government protocol, local context, and how to navigate the maze of Suva streets.

More to come, I’m sure.

Living and Dying in LA

2007-06-23T19:52:00.000-07:00

So here I go again, back to the South Pacific.

Welcome old friends, new friends, family, girlfriend. As always, please feel free to share with others, unless they are registered psychologists or government agents investigating my background.

I get asked a lot just what I am doing in Fiji. I have been accused of “giving vague answers” and “dodging the question”….. maybe I don’t really know what I am doing

............ I plan on backpacking through Fiji, based out of Suva. I will pursue my interests of exploring the culture, language, and food of Fiji.

OK, so I don’t really know exactly what I will be doing. But whatever, there is always a beach to go lay on. Languish in stuffy DC offices fellow interns, languish in stuffy DC offices.

Currently, I am in LA. You can imagine what a kid from the mountains of Alaska thinks of LA, so I will not stoop to swearing and derogatory comments in my first posting….much.

Let me tell you about my day in LA. I arrive late last night from Anchorage and three hours later, accounting for sitting on the tarmac at LAX, I show up at Four Corners by Sheraton Lax.

Clue number one that Expedia.com lied about the quality of the hotel: All the hotel shuttle guests get off at the Hilton, and you are left with the Air Mexicana flight crew to hold hands with as the shuttle bus turns into the back alleys of LA.

I was really hungry. Oh how I long for the days of crappy airplane food. We were wrong to ever complain about the quality. I would sit in sackcloth and ashes, if the free food would return.

Clue number two that Expedia.com lied about the quality of the hotel: The smoke alarm goes off during your hot shower, and moments later your room is invaded by security and a maintenance crew, while you huddle in the corner in a wet towel. The hilarity of the situation is compounded by the fact that the maintenance man is only 4 ft. tall, so you have to stretch to your full extent to take down the wailing alarm, mooning the scared midget with a tool-belt in the process.

I am finding it is hard to save the world while living in poverty. Stuffing my face with leftover trail mix doesn’t satisfy my daily recommended nutritional intake.

Clue number three that Expedia.com lied about the quality of the hotel: The free shuttle to the “mall” drops you off at Target, with a Burger King in the parking lot and a Ross Fashion Outlet across the street.

I shouldn’t complain too bad… there is free wireless internet. And ESPN on the TV.

My flight leaves tonight at 11:30 PM. Air Pacific. I get into Nadi, Fiji 10 hours later on Monday, as they are a day ahead, and a season behind. Please feel free to email me.

Sori i go long ol jif mo bigbig man from ol rabis fasin. Presem Masta Jisas Kris.

The Adventure Continues

2007-06-22T16:09:00.000-07:00

Word.