The following was written by Georgia, our 15-year-old daughter, back in
January for a school application. We asked, and she said I was welcome to
post it as long as I forwarded any of the comments to her. Thought
you all might enjoy her take. -- Janet
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For the past five months my family and I have been living in Fiji, a group
of tropical islands in the South Pacific, universally known as the source
of Fiji water. My parents and brother dove head first into the local
island experience by living on Taveuni, the Garden Island, and I was left
in Suva, the capital on the main island, Viti Levu. While they were
showing free movies at the cramped 180 Meridian Cinema, (getting its name
from its location on the International Dateline), I was at the Village
Six, where the seats are almost too far apart to put your feet up on the
one in front of you. While they were jumping off cliffs and dropping from
tree branches into the nearby swimming cove, I was becoming acquainted to
Fiji's nightlife of karaoke clubs and pool halls, or eating at the
exciting new addition to Fiji's fast food options, KFC, "Fiji's favorite
chicken". My brother attended the local Catholic School, Holy Cross, and
I enrolled at the International School Suva. Despite the weekend trips to
Taveuni, my life had taken an ironic twist. I ended up in more of a city
situation, instead of an untouched tropical paradise. Although
unexpected, my experience served as a stepping stone minimizing the
culture shock of moving from American to Island life.
Most of the International School population was Steve Irwin-hating
Australians and sheep-loving New Zealanders, which left only one third of
the students as ethnic Fijians. With help from the Fijian administrators,
many students had adopted the way of the land, and the Fijian mentality
was upheld as the foundation of the school community. The approach to
academic discipline was lackadaisical, the only area taken seriously was
the dress code, to maintain the reputation of the school. The indolent
attitude even found its way to the basketball court.
My second week was the start of the "basketball season". I was beyond
excited, expecting to work long and hard, coming from the Varsity team of
my last school and I had seen how seriously the rugby and netball seasons
were taken. Even after the first basketball practice had been pushed back
enough times to lose a week I wasn't worried. "What's a week, the winter
seasons always the longest." When the practice was finally held, only
two girls decided to show up, one in her school uniform, which consisted
of a knee length skirt, a sleeveless button down top, and no shoes. The
other one was me, dressed for basketball head to toe.
Two weeks later, and four practices better, with girls recruited from
netball, our team was almost ready for "the tournament", but not without
the coach giving his arousing, inspirational speech, making sure to cover
the most important factor of the game: you MUST wear shoes. I had heard
this before, but then it had meant basketball shoes must be worn to every
practice, and only on a basketball court. In this case, it meant to wear
any covered, sneaker type shoe, that won't fall off while running, and it
was described as a "safety precaution of the gym". Although this speech
had not corrected the over the head, soccer throw-in style shot, or taught
any of the girls to play a basic defense, with these last words imprinted
in our minds we managed to win our first game. Unfortunately, it was only
because the team we were supposed to play didn't exist, but with that as
our only victory we still somehow miraculously made it to the semi-finals.
After our last devastating loss, the season was over as quickly as it had
started.
Once my two terms at the international school were over, I decided to move
in with my family on Taveuni, an island not only with no basketball but no
electricity. Our house is a 120-year-old plantation house, with solar
power that works some of the time. Three miles, or five kilometers down
the road, is the town of Wairiki, home to the "worlds most remote movie
theater", so far. When my family is not out exploring the rest of the
island, the majority of our time is spent here. My father "John Free
Movies", brother and I pick up all the "rubbish" on the floor, which the
locals are considerate enough to put there instead of out the window
because of my father's speech listing the rules before every movie: 1.
Don't break the bathrooms when they are occasionally working and 2. Don't
throw your rubbish out the windows.
One day while walking with my brother Wyatt, we came across a volleyball
game at the edge of the village where the majority of his friends live. A
few kids yelled out "Wyatt", and the rest "Uro". "Uro" was not a nickname
I had brought with me from America, nor does it sounds short for
"Georgia", but for some reason since my arrival in Fiji I had been
answering to this name. It didn't take long before I was informed of the
real meaning,
apparently it meant either "I love you" or "sexy". In my mind the first
thought was that the two shouldn't be categorized as the same word, but at
this point in the trip my experience has been that, for Fijians, there's
no
distinction between, "I love you" and "I want you". Traditionally, in
their culture relationships among Fijians are taken more seriously, but as
for the villagers in my area, they have no problem calling Wyatt "tuvale"
which
means "brother in law".
At first we were reluctant to join the game, but soon after broke out our
American skills with no hesitation. Even though our team was never
victorious joining was not a complete loss. Once the volleyball obtained
a hole too big to be salvaged by tape, I was asked to travel to another
island with them all to play in a tournament the following day. I could
bring Wyatt and all we had to do was show up at the same spot at 8 am. As
the next morning turned into afternoon, we waited for our boat.
Fiji is made up of over 300 islands, so by people saying we were going to
"the island" I had no idea which one it was. Thinking "tournament", I
assumed it was one large enough to have several teams., but became
skeptical when teammates claimed the games started "when we got there".
Turns out we were going to Kioa Village, the sole village on Kioa Island.
The games finally began around 4pm and continued until about 6, exactly
when the sun had set enough to stop glaring in our eyes. Then the Taveuni
team was crowned the winners and the Kioa team the losers, coming in at a
close second.
All the people from Taveuni split up to spend the night with different
families. Wyatt and I stayed with Dee, an old friend of the Taveuni,
players, and as we found out later, a chief's daughter. We headed back to
her one-room house with a curtain separating the rooms and a porch as the
kitchen. Then it was time for showers.
When I hear the word shower I automatically think steamy, overhead running
water, everything typically found in a hotel room. On the contrary, an
island shower consists of a large bucket, a smaller bucket, and if you're
lucky, a shed. The larger bucket is filled by one of the running water
taps located around the village and brought back to either the bathing
shed or any area outside where water can be dumped. If you are in the
open, a sulu
is usually worn, then simply the smaller container is used to pour the
water over your head. There is no hot water, so I was always hesitant to
pour the first bucket, but once the initial shock passes every other
bucket becomes
more refreshing. Afterwards you can dress yourself or just walk around in
the towel as long as you like, no one seems to even notice. Peculiar how
you can walk around in a towel all day, but you receive countless dirty
looks when you wear shorts that fall above the knee.
After showers everyone sat on the floor for dinner of island style
two-minute noodles with no utensils, then wandered around, eventually
making their way to the dance hall. A traditional dance has lights on,
ladies sitting on one side, and men drinking kava on the other. The ladies
wait for one of the men to come pick them to dance, then the two go into
the middle and "get their groove on", but hardly ever touch each other.
The dance ends before eleven, when the communal generator is shut off.
Then the ladies join the men and move the kava bowl outside to the bure,
or traditional grass hut, to continue the celebration. There's talking
and laughing until everyone decides it's time to call it a night, usually
when the kava finishes. Then everyone makes their way back home across
the wood one-plank bridges and drifts off to sleep, thinking about the
next morning when the kava session will most likely start all over again.
We were supposed to return to Taveuni early the next morning, but after
hours of aimless time consumption, we heard we were going to stay another
day. That's how information travels on these islands, "coconut wireless"
the
locals call it. News always gets around, sometimes fast, sometimes slow,
but eventually everyone knows. Staying longer was not a big deal for any
of the natives, but of course my brother and I knew our over protective,
American parents would imagine endless stories of our torturous death
because of our failure to return. Luckily, Gopal, the husband of our
family friend and chef, unexpectedly showed up on the island so we sent
him back with news of our prolonged stay.
What started out as a family joke has now become an unbelievable reality.
Leaving my sheltered New York suburban home for the unspoiled Garden
Island has been amazing. Instead of television, I have culture. Instead
of boring, I have adventure. Instead of ordinary, I have paradise. It's
a place seemingly stuck in the past, yet where every new day on earth
begins.
-- Georgia Pierson