In March 2007 I accompanied Clyde on his annual trip to Namotu, one of the thousands of islands that comprise Fiji. There is really nothing to do on Namotu but surf. You use every possible method of transportation to get there and it takes 25 hours. I'm not exactly sure why I went.
But the Fijian people could not be any nicer and everyone says Bula! all the time. The Fijian language does not seem to have an abundance of vocabulary, as bula means welcome, good morning, how are you, thank you, good luck, gesundheit and have some kava, it will kick your ass.
The first night we're on the island reminds me of the title of one of my favorite books: Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. A ferocious and spectacular thunderstorm was parked over our hut. Being delusional with jetlag, I was certain we would awake in the morning to sunny clear skies. I was mistaken.
On day two, the rain and wind continue. The surf is completely blown out. Whitecaps surround the island. The surfer boys are sulking.
Day three. It's Still Raining. Everything is wet. It doesn't matter if it is under a roof or not. The sheets are damp. The towels are dank. But when the storm finally heads for New Zealand, everyone is all smiles as it is now possible to surf - which is the reason for your entire existence here on Namotu - and all the surfers run for the boats. Happiness abounds, as does the humidity.
The air is thick and wet and you have to carry it everywhere you go. But really, this is the best my hair has ever looked. My big activity is eating, and after each meal I sit in a stupor, as the energy it takes to sweat and digest at the same time just exhausts me.
I notice I have eight mosquito bites. On my left hand. I have to stop counting the ones covering my other body parts because it is too depressing.
By day five Sue and I vote ourselves off the island. Sue thoughtfully arranges for us to be whisked away in a cigarette boat I mean aluminum trawler for an overnight stay at the Sofitel Hotel and Spa on another island. Once in our hotel room we are absolutely delighted to find pristine white bath towels that are perfectly dry and do not stink. Our room is also equipped with a well-lit mirror and a hair dryer. Even better, we have beds that do not have sand in them. This is the best hotel EVER.
We have wonderful and relaxing (because geez, the stress of the past five days has been unbearable) spa treatments performed by sweet, soft-spoken Fijian girls. They remind us to "wear our bathing costumes" if we would like to use the co-ed jacuzzi. And I find southern-hemisphere strength insect repellent at the hotel store that I hope will prevent the onset of dengue fever that I'm certain is imminent if I get one more mosquito bite.
In addition to mosquitos, the other thing not to miss in Fiji is the kava. The trick is you have to drink the whole cup at once. If you stop, there is no way you'll start again because it tastes just like dirty mop water looks.
Finally on day seven our time is up and we have to head home! The first leg of the journey means taking a boat and then a bus to the Nadi airport. This is the part of the trip that becomes just like The Amazing Race. Only with surfboards.
Once in Nadi we have hours and hours to kill before our flight back to Calif. departs, so Clyde and I have arranged to visit our friend Kara's native village. It's about this time that Phil starts narrating in my head. "Team One (Clyde and Melissa) have decided to do the Visit a Village roadblock. This involves negotiating a taxi and traveling approximately 15 miles where they will participate in a local kava drinking ceremony and join a village family for lunch."
We arrive at the village but just barely. The rain has left the dirt road filled with ruts and mudholes. I can't believe the taxi can navigate through them but the driver seems unconcerned. Kara's family is so happy to see us and want us to participate in a kava ceremony right away. We also eat the traditional Fijian lunch they have thoughtfully prepared for us and serve on Christmas plates. I am so deeply troubled by the lack of basic sanitation that I am paralyzed. I try desperately hard not to look at the sad, skinny dogs warily watching from beyond. This visit was way harder than I imagined it would be.
Thankfully another taxi arrives to take us back. This one has a different driver. Who tells us he is "married to this village". After much questioning I finally understand that his wife's brother lives there. Or something like that.
Phil continues: "Team One successfully completes the roadblock and now heads back to wait for the bus to the Nadi International Airport for their flight to Los Angeles. Once at Nadi, each team will pick up their luggage and a large bag containing a 10-foot long surfboard that they must carry through three crowded airports on the final leg of their journey."
The Nadi Airport is a humid teeming mass of global humanity trying to travel somewhere. There are 10 of us attempting to move six board bags plus various other pieces of luggage through the crowds. A video of this process would be so amusing. When Phil and the producers of The Amazing Race are trying to think up new twists for the show, having teams travel with surfboards should be at the top of their list.
"All teams make the flight to Los Angeles and now must fly ten and a half hours, crossing the international dateline, to touch down in California at 1:30 pm local time. Once there, they must then retrieve their luggage and surfboards and navigate the approximately quarter mile distance from the International Terminal to their domestic airline on foot."
The flight from Nadi is late. LAX is chaos - we have arrived at the beginning of Easter break and every college student and family with small children who live in California are here with us. We find our luggage, but wait for the surfboards. And wait. And wait. It becomes abundantly clear that will will not make our Southwest flight to San Jose. I suggest we call SWA and make reservations for the next flight, but I am overruled by Gary - we should "try" to make our flight. As if there is even the remotest possibility.
The boards eventually arrive. We pile them on baggage carts and RUN - outside of the airport, not inside - to the other terminal. We are greeted by huge lines and throngs of travelers who are not amused by us or our unwieldiness. Many of them have difficulty comprehending that a 10-foot surfboard cannot bend itself around a tight corner and thus they will have to MOVE A LITTLE BIT so we can get by.
Checking in with a surfboard can - depending on the skill of the agent - take either 5 minutes or a half an hour. Team One gets an agent who knows what she is doing and also tell us to just go straight to the gate for the 5:00 flight. Team Two - led by Gary - gets a different agent who tells him it will cost him $58 and he can't get on the 5:00 flight. Gary throws a tantrum. We don't want to be seen with him.
Team One goes to the gate to discover that we can actually get on a flight RIGHT NOW!! We decide to take it because getting to San Jose equals WINNING! We abandoned Team Two, who happen to be our best friends. Clearly I am delirious after being up for 30 hours. Remember the story about the village? That all happened on the same day I am now describing. I know. Unbelievable.
