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.