The Death of Tourism

Tourism is dead to me now. I want to be a world citizen, and I want real experiences. Every backpacker feels he is seeking alternative experiences by backpacking and staying in hostels and reading Lonely Planet instead of staying at resorts and taking packaged tours. But Lonely Planet guidebooks sell millions, and tourism, both high and low end, are the primary or secondary income of many third world, backpacker-frequented countries. I've realized that half the time the unique experiences I seek out turn out to be packaged experiences dressed up as alternative tourism. The irony of backpacking is that while seeking to experience unique and sometimes disappearing cultures, we end up turning these cultures into items for sale and accelerating the destruction of the very cultures we so respect and seek out.

While googling every variation of "fiji tourism" I could think of, trying to find things to do to fill our 3 weeks in Fiji, I found a national geographic article about tribewanted.com, a partnership between a Fijian village and an online "tribe" of mostly British and Americans. The idea: start a second village near the Fijian village, for the online tribe, work and live in conjunction with the locals, and create an ecologically- and culturally-friendly village. Limit the number of online tribies to 30 at one time, so that the Fijians outnumber the white-faces most of the time, and see how it works out.

How did it work out for us? The first day, the infectious and frequent laugher of the Fijians resulted in me smiling and laughing more than I had in the preceding year. There were only 10 or less white people on the island while we were there, compared to a rotating cast of 20 or so Fijians at any given time. The Fijians mostly live on the connected island Mali (ours is called Vorovoro, originally the island for Mali's chief, Tui Mali, and his family, but now home to his family, the tribewanted visitors, and a few Fijian employees from Mali). We gave a Sevusevu to Tui Mali, which is a 1/2 kilogram bundle of Kava given as a thank you / request to the chief for letting you enter his village, or in this case, island. It is a rather lengthy and involved ceremony, involving a speech by me, a speech by Tui Mali, a speech by Api (an older Fijian fellow), Te (another important figure) and finally by Tui Mali, as well as lots of kava drinking and lengthy bouts of sitting cross-legged (which killed my knees, I suspect doing permanent damage). The initial portion of the ceremony is perhaps the only time you will see Fijians act serious. As the ceremony continued into the night we all became inebriated by the kava (causing mind and muscle relaxation, making you talkative, causing your eyelids to uncontrollably droop and eventually resulting in a deep and restful sleep, sometimes with wicked dreams). Tui Mali departed, and the mood became even more relaxed. The guitar appeared, and the Fijians sang songs (barbershop trio style) and we were asked to do our own songs, but mostly failed. A night or two later, I attempted to sing Rocky Raccoon over the guitar playing of Api, who played the guitar line for "Imagine" by John Lennon, which I'd heard him play earlier and realized would work for Rocky Raccoon, one of the only songs I know by heart. I'm quite proud: I started out a bit shy and quiet, and as I got used to singing (I hardly even sing in the shower) I turned up the volume and added some sound effects (slapping the ground to simulate Danny drawing first and shooting Rocky). One of the Fijians picked up my rhythm and added drumbeat with his hands on the ground, while two others gave background vocals (tonal, not lyrical, since they didn't know the words). It was so freaking cool.

Another day, I hung out with Api, an almost excessively friendly older fellow who tried to teach me some Fijian. Earlier in the day, I'd offered to help him with his day's task--machette the path from the boat landing to the village--and he was glad to accept the offer. The day wore on, and my encroaching headache worsened (I don't know if it was the bottle of Pernod we'd polished off the night before, the grog, being woken up after 6 hours sleep by crowing roosters, or the stressful desert island lifestyle, but it was a wicked headache). I decided to take a nap on the hammock, hoping to sneak out of my earlier offer. I was almost there--about 10 feet short of the hammock, when Api came around the corner, ear-to-ear patented smile and even more widely smiling eyes aimed right at me. "Kevin, would you like to help me now?" "Of course, uh, yeah, like, right now?" "Oh Kevin, are you too tired? Maybe you have worked too hard. Or too much grog? I'll let you rest" "No, no, of course not, Api. Let's get to it." So I was caught in a tangled web of promises and teasing Fijian sarcasm. But I've sometimes found that the best hangover cure isn't Vegemite, a Bloody Mary or a 5 painkillers, but a couple of hours of sweaty work, so I was ready to pound out a couple hours of machete work, then go for a quick sea dip and and beach hammock nap. But no, that is just not the Fijian way.

To start out our work, we sat down at the lunch table for a half-hour, chatting with everyone in sight. When it became impossible to delay further and Api had still made no move to actually begin working, I asked what tools we'd need, including to obvious Machetes. He told me--a couple of shovels as well-- and I arranged the implements of your work, and then Api said we must rest, from this extreme expenditure of energy. We then walked to the worksite (a path through the encroaching jungle, which passes through the center of the island, connecting the two bays on opposing sides of our tiny paradise), and worked for 5 minutes, then rested 15 minutes because Moreau showed up. Api and Moreau chatted for quite awhile, then worked 5, and rest 15, chatting the whole time while methodically and skillfully chopping away at the jungle. If anyone passed by, they'd talk with the passers-by and take a break. Meanwhile, I attempted to imitate their technique (requires a movement roughly similar to a lazy sidearm baseball toss, with most of the force coming from the wrist flick at the end) but my hacks were far less effective. When finished, we found shade and sat for a half-hour, then returned tools, and rested after our hard days work, or taka oua cakacaka (pronounched taka oua thakathaka, c's being th's in Fijian...by the way, about we'd take frequent breaks for language lessons during this work).

I have to admit that this way of working was difficult to adjust to, for a guy that's used to working long days full-steam then coming home and smoking and drinking to relax. It's generally all or nothing for me. But that's not the Fijian way, and it's not that Fijians are lazy. It's partly that their lax method of work is well suited to the tropics, where high temperatures and humidity make sustained physical effort a ridiculous concept. It's also that Fijians seem to value quality of life over anything, and no work need become suffering. Social interaction is a part of life, work is a part of life, and therefore social interaction is a part of work. Work becomes fun, if not particularly efficient. And the work needing to be done gets done, somehow.

Of course, on Vorovoro, that's largely because of Pupu, a local legendary figure. More on him later.

This foray into actually immersing myself in another culture was my best experience in recent memory. I think working with someone is the best way to learn about them, and forges real bonds of friendship and mutual respect.

Luther Travel Luck

Before I left for my first big travel adventure, to Western Europe for a month with John in 2003, I was made privy to a family secret: bizarre travel luck. Apparently, the Luthers (particularly my father's generation) has encountered good luck while traveling. Well, I never believed in luck or acts of God or any of that and still don't. Some reckon it's just skill+timing, which seems about right. I'd guess it's more like the predictable results of a fucking simple bell curve, and if you make appropriate choices, you'll end up as the outlier you most desire, aka a lucky circumstance. For those of you who'd call me a dork for referencing a bell curve and those others who've already navigated away from my blog, I reckon that's for the best, since I am a dork and I'm bound to ramble incoherently.

To the point: I've found that I'm another lucky recipient of "Luther Luck."

Traveling with John, we were given free groceries by a benevolent French lady at a farmers market, narrowly escaped authorities, discovered amazing hidden paradises, met friendly travellers, and our trip took frequent positive turns.

Traveling with Jerome, we were on an overbook flight, and instead of getting delayed, we were booked to first class, and spent the 12 hour flight drinking champagne, mimosas, red wine and Bloody Marys, eating gourmet food and stretching out in our luxurious seats while chatting with our extremely friendly and attentive stewardess. And since Air New Zealand lets their first class passengers do pretty much whatever they want, we even sang "I wanna grow old with you" to a lucky second class passenger.

After arriving in Fiji and catching a second short flight, we decided to walk from the airport to town, and were offered rides from locals, finally accepting the third offer. just returning from a brief Sunday work in the fields fertilizing their sugar cane, the main local crop. They offered to take us to our hotel, but on the edge of town, they suddenly and without warning turned into a gravelly driveway leading behind a shop. Seemed like trouble, and a prepared to make a run for it if necessary, sizing up the competition and our positions in case of complications. They claimed they were making a pit stop to "fix the bumper." Turns out, it was true. The bumber was loose, and after about an hour's worth of hilariously inept attempts (Jerome and I offered help, but were refused), they were able to fix it. In the meantime we realized we were at the house of the driver's Indo-Fijian family, where we hung out for the afternoon drinking kava (a mildly narcotic, relaxing drink made of ground up yaqona root mixed with water), Fiji Bitter beer, and Fiji's own Bounty Rum (59% alcohol, a stiff one), eventually sitting down to each a wonderful home cooked meal of green curry fish, red curry chicken, rice, pickled lemons, and taro root (also known as Dalo, it is similar to potato but spongier).It was three sweaty Indian guys (driver Birbal, passengers Raj and Samdi) in a pickup truck, who we learned were Jerome even helped the (20-year-old) daughter sort out the bad grains of rice (amidst cross-cultural flirtation), while the son chopped up the taro root with a machete. At dinner, we followed suit after our hosts began



eating with their bare hands (using only the right, as is traditional in India since the left hand is used to rinse after dropping a deuce). The large food is easy, but the rice is damn tough to pick up. After food, each of the other two guys took us to their houses, where we continued drinking Fiji Bitter (which we picked up from the local bar, the "Farmer's Club," we bought a 12-pack of 750mL bottles, the Fijian equivalent of a 40oz), eating wife-made-food (homemade fries to make us feel at home, etc), and meeting myriad family members. As for their style of drinking: when consuming a 750mL, one does not drink a bottle by yourself. You get a couple of small glasses (say, 8 oz), and pour beer into each. Hand it to anyone, and they have to pound it (sipping is allowed, but chugging is far more common). You pour another glass, and hand it to someone else. So on until the bottle is finished. Then open another bottle and repeat. The result: beer stays fresh despite the heat and you don't get that shitty last 5oz's of a 40oz like I'm used to, and also, you get drunk really fast. It was a lot of fun, and I remember philosophical conversations about how we were all great friends and Samdi repeatedly saying "this is history in the making" and talking about seizing the day and that tomorrow is never promised, and that nothing else mattered. It was great drunken fun.

Later strokes of "Luther Luck" will be in other blog postings, but it involves surviving two cyclones and finding a second home.