January 2007

Some days pass at Wakaya, more swimming in the very alive reef, sneering at the kayakers and discovering an area of rot surrounding the deck’s upper structure. Michela and me get very busy with chisel and hammer, eradicating the likely result of years and months of kiwi rainfall. Once we reorganize and feel like we got to see everything there is in this anchorage (and being fed-up to be surrounded by such filthy rich weirdos) we move on, destination Makongai, another small island a few miles north, ex leprosy colony and now who knows.
It’s another pleasant sail through the reef and on to the dark shape not so far away. We pass Makongai’s NW entrance and sail in, toward what looks like a very pristine, sparsely inhabited, nicely sheltered little bay. The anchor goes in the crystal water and as soon as possible we get ready to go ashore, hopeful to find a better reception than the other islands. We have about 15 bags of kava but we bring just four for starters, we don’t want to give our stash away to potentially unfriendly/indifferent people.
We reach the jetty undisturbed, soon we are approached and as custom we request to see the chief and perform our Sevusevu. We take a seat in the communal home, where talk and ceremony is usually performed, the village is drowsy in the midday heat, we re told it’s lunchtime and so we’ll have to wait a little for the chief.
Soon enough a stocky man, grey hair and dignified pace arrives carrying two papayas. We are expecting another long ceremony full of warnings (don’t wear this, don’t go there), instead before we even introduce ourselves we are handed the papayas, quick introductions, and Tomasi takes us to his home. Definitely a different approach that what we had so far. Everyone is informal and very friendly, we have a nice chat with Tomasi, he lets us take a shower in the back of his home (shower our only intended request), he reassures us that we can stay as long as we please, go around without restrictions, and that we’ll all have an evening together the day after. The island is now a facility for breeding and repopulation of giant clams and turtles, an Australian project.
We’ll end up spending some wonderful days in the company of marvellous people, playing soccer with the kids, jumping off the jetty, playing diesel drums with sticks and collecting a few giant clam-shells. Tomasi takes me in the jungle for a one-on-one session of learning on how to get food in the bush. Making sticks to get down popos and cocoanuts, how to spot cut and suck on a sugarcane stalk, how to make a basket out of palm fronds to carry it all away. On my own later I go on collecting some wild chillies and lemon tree leafs for tea, while discovering abandoned machinery and a few secluded leper’s huts still standing, overlooking the sea…considering that at the height of the colony five thousand people lived there with steady supplies, cottages on the beach, more fruit in the bush and fish in the sea than they could ever use and even an open air movie theatre, their life couldn’t have been all that bad.
On Friday we’re all invited to dinner at the settlement: tons of crabs, breadfruit, cassava, yams. It’s us, Tomasi’s family, some workers, and a visiting pastor from Suva who came by from the actual village on the opposite side of the island.
After the gargantuan dinner we all settle in the porch, smoking quietly thin cigarettes of locally grown tobacco wrapped in slivers of newspaper while someone strums a guitar. We expect to have a few bowls of Yaqona (Kava), but we’re informed that they wiped out the four bags we brought the night before, and there’s none at all in the entire village.
Naturally, being the occasion so perfect (the dinner, friends, guitars, and a sliver of moon turning the bay silver), I sprint out to get the remaining eleven bags, figuring that we won’t get an occasion better than this to put them to good use.
The pastor asks to visit the yacht, and I oblige, happy to do just about anything to please such amazing hosts. We get the bags and the atmosphere cheers up. More guitars appear, a ukulele, a mandolin, spoons as drums. Off go the bilos (bowls) at a steady pace, in between sweet melodies of traditional Fijian favourites. The girls join in and the melodies get sweeter and sweeter, while me and Tomasi talk about life, the sea and fishing in Fiji and in other distant lands. We are now adorned by fronds and our faces get smeared with talcum among giggling we can’t understand. (Later I’ll find out is a tradition whenever “staying up late with the girls”). It takes a while, but eventually we manage to finish the songbook and the eleven bags of Kava. Time for sweet dreams while the moon sets behind the rocks.

December 2006

The day is bright, the sky an intense blue streaked with long clouds. The original plan was to go forward to Nairai, but it being quite upwind I decide on trying Mbatiki: the island is a challenge as the reef entrance looks very tricky, a sure sign that neither tourists nor sailboats often go there. The sailing is pleasant: good five knots with a dry deck. We coast along Mbatiki, the inner lagoon is perfect turquoise, sloping green hills with the cutest sheltered village on the western side. Arrived at the infamous passage we douse the sail and start looking for the entrance. Even before it there are several intermediate reefs and coral heads, pretty narrow manoeuvring space as it is. I circle closer and closer, each of us studying the colours ahead trying to spot the passage, but after about half an hour we give up, after all the charts are pretty old and in the intervening years corals might have grown to make the passage even narrower.
We have the full day in front of us, so we keep on sailing north to Wakaya, where the passages are multiple and seem to pose no problem at all. Again we coast the western lee side, again we look for a passage into a picture perfect lagoon-with-white-sand-beach but again no luck, we must go to the ‘official’ anchorage on the northern side. Getting to the entrance we go by some stunning steep rocky coastline, surprisingly, above we spot several luxurious looking villas, we are intrigued.
Upon reaching the northern side there is a beach developed as what looks like a resort. We manage the reef pass indicated by two beaten “beacons” (overstatement!) and finally drop anchor in seven meters, a pristine looking beach on the right, more luxury villas above.
The only other boat is a charter diving boat, and after we get settled the dinghy approaches with some Fijians aboard. They inform us this is a private island owned by the owner of Fiji Water, it is forbidden to land and by the demeanour of the kayakers around (blatantly ignoring us and looking the other way), we figure we’re not quite welcome in their private paradise. Never mind, new year’s is tomorrow and we’re not going to move until ‘07. We snorkel and swim, happy for the new place, and wondering what the fuss is all about on this island, though knowing that Tom Cruise and Mel Gibson have a villa here makes it sound a true rich weirdo recreational spot.
The sunset is amazing, worthy of some tropically inspired postcard, we have some dinner and then start imagining some lavish party in some awesome villa while having a few glasses of wine. As night falls we have worked ourselves up into a real big party fantasy, and the curiosity to go see if anything is going on is just too strong.
We then decide to put on our best clothes, grab the bottle of Bounty Rum (58% over proof) and row the dinghy ashore. On the beach a big sign warns that entrance to the island is strictly forbidden, but we muse that being new year’s, the inhabitants might be intoxicated and forgiving of our little intrusion.
We walk up the unpaved road and make our way to some villa’s gates, everywhere is silence, bummer.
Some cars pass us but don’t stop, (looks like they’re not so strict after all), while the warm rum straight up makes us all more and more boisterous. Nearly giving up on the party crashing idea and turning around to go back at the beach I start hitchhiking, just for the fun of it.
An SUV stops, and I anticipate a bit of chit chat and some more information on the island itself. The lone passenger on the unlicensed car is a beefy Australian, and immediately he fires a few dry orders. You’re from the yacht? Go back immediately!
His tone is anything but friendly, I explain what we were up to, just checking for the chance of having a bit of fun on new year’s, but the bully is unmoved and repeats his “orders” with an even angrier tone. “Ok, no need to get agitated!”, I say, “We’re going back at once”. The Doberman is mechanically barking now, so I repeat that we’re going back and what if we don’t, is he going to shoot us? He replies that he can shoot us if he pleases “And much more”. Asshole.
I just ignore him and keep on walking downhill, no point in even talking to the dog, while I keep sipping the Rum to keep myself from getting in his car and see if I can teach him some manners.
We spend the rest of the night getting drunk on the beach (no beach can be completely off-limits), skinny dipping, while a guard keeps flashing a light at us. I try to offer him some Rum as to say that we have no evil intention, but the Fijian must have been chastised already for not spotting us earlier, so he refuses.
Having drunk almost half of the bottle by myself the day after sees us all (and me in particular) with a devastating hangover, as January 1st should be.

Suva

Two weeks are spent digging and sorting out all sorts of supplies. Hardware shop after another, the list seems to go on forever. I decide to replace the beaten bilge pump. Found the only right one in a Taiwanese parts shop. We're missing three dollars: an employee offers them to fill the gap, a complete stranger. Get permits, sealants; fasteners, assorted hardware and the first money ever made all go into the boat. We sift markets, alleys, and buildings, Chinese stores; everywhere the most cordial and straightforward people imaginable -especially the Fijians-.

Christmas is around the corner and Suva is awash with shoppers. Deejays crowd the entrance to grocery stores, blasting sugary hits of the moment and jingles. The Bus waiting aisles are clogged with sleepy travellers hugging banana stalks, saris, wrapped boxes, bags, dogs, and children. At the movies the latest Indian blockbusters with Amithab Bacham and the worst of Hollywood (Rocky Balboa).

Christmas day is deserted while we itch to leave. Another Christmas in the tropics: no Christmas at all. Liat arrives in the last few days, in time for the last massive shopping and the final cleanup. She brings a mandolin, which will make Augustine happy.

Then Monday comes, I check out bound to Savusavu with all the papers to stop wherever along the way.

Outside the harbour is choppy, after the two ferries for Savusavu and Taveuni pass us, the wind shifts favourable and we move on toward N'gau. Liat pukes nearly the whole night, but she's taking it well.

N'gau appears from the early morning mist shrouded in long clouds. A pod of over ten dolphins accompanies us at the reef entrance on the north-western side. The reef entrance is large, and we welcome the changing waters to a less sober shade of blue. We motor sail along the coast, taking in the bays and coasting along the inner reefs that enclose them. We skip the village at the entrance aiming for a more sheltered one where hot springs are indicated on the chart. I manage to find the entrance that will let us closer to the village (c-map only showing a large patch of coral). We are soon boarded by a troupe of children coming back from a picnic in one of the coves next-door, an older guy introduces himself and asks us to do the sevusevu to get our presence cleared with the chief, so we arrange for a later meeting when we'll be set. At low tide we go ashore, buy kava root and sit in the meeting hut, the marae, dressed according to his instructions. When the proper people are finally present, Idris, the chief's son, recites and introduction for us in Fijian, acting as our ambassador. He talks fast in a quiet tone, head lowered, holding the bunch of brown roots in his joined hands. As the chief accepts our sevusevu the others break out in an exultory formula while I smile and shake hands. The kava drinking begins and so a row of questions on our situation. The village is crowded at the moment, as many families have returned from the capital to enjoy the festivities with their families, back to the quiet village lifestyle. After a few rounds we leave the elders to their drinking: we are invited over for dinner under a common awning and table serving several families (clan). The village is delightfully simple: modest but neat huts of wood and corrugated tin roofs, no doors, grass everywhere instead of concrete or tar, sounds of kava pounding, birds, fires being set-up, children jumping and running everywhere peeking at us mischievously from behind corners.

Idris is rather pushy, trying to organize the next three days for us, pointing time and again of the coming 'fundraiser' for the school. Had he asked for a simple donation to the school we'd happily complied, but the recurrence of the 'fundraiser' theme makes it all a bit suspicious, and we'd rather be free to come and go as we please than having a schedule to respect. So, the morning after, following a brief consultation, we decide to move on before getting caught up in the plan. We move to the northern side, near the entrance of the reef, imagining clearer waters and unmolested anchorage. A little zigzagging through the bommies and we drop anchor twice (rocky bottom) in the farthest corner of the bay.

One day goes by, snorkelling and exploring around a little bit the nearby reef and beaches, enjoying some quiet time. The reef is right behind us, a short swim away, though the water isn’t as clear as it appeared from a distance. On the second day a raft approaches slowly, a man and woman fishing. As they come nearer we salute, they feebly wave back and approach.

First words: “Do you have a cruising permit?”

Damnit, our enthusiasm for Fiji is downgraded a few notches.

He tells us he’s the chief’s son, no problem I reply with a forced grin: ‘Welcome aboard’.

Not being friendly at all and after carefully inspecting the permit he leaves. We decide to leave as soon as possible the day after.

NZ to Suva

A long winter in Paihia waiting in circles, one month just about. People coming and going, stories and disappointments. Then sudden as bad luck all falls into place, although taking the chance of accepting as crew two people who have never been on boats seriously.
Last hang-ups with the authorities, mooring at the sacred Q pier one afternoon on the sly and asked to leave by annoyed customs after we enjoyed our free tied-up night.
Then after a shaky departure from the main harbour pier, pushed against the pylons by the wind, off we went, motoring out of Bay of Islands for one last time. Wednesday December 6th. Out of the bay not the usual roughness, so off goes the precautionary reef. If all goes as what it looked like on the weather services we should get a bit of edge in the middle, but nothing to worry about. First two days all is ideal: fish is caught, boat self-steering with the aid of a bungee, sunny sailing-with-the-stereo-on. The galley rattles on thanks to M.ela, who never even considered sailing in her life, until a couple weeks before, boat is all a trim.
On third day heavier clouds appear, sea getting slight, it doesn’t look too bad, had the steering kept on working through. We rig the emergency tiller that doesn’t steers I place Augusto to it just to get some little steering (and keep him quietly out of the way) and down merrily we go to the engine room. I look at the box holding together the steering gear, a few empty sockets and loose bolts hanging it together. Thanks former owner!
I hammer the box out of the steering shaft and spring to scrounge in the secret locations of my spare hardware. I struggle with sizes and matches finding the best ones, which just happen to come from a small bundle wrapped in green tape over which I spent several minutes pondering over (“what could these be for?”).
Some more misdirected hammering, oiling and cursing. Taking the box off, then back on etc. there slides the shaft, a locking pin, back on track.
A relatively quiet night although with swell and some more the day after but getting bigger, so the squall hits us the following night, a short-lived one on M.ela’s watch, right before mine. As I take on helming, after a bit of trimming left unattended, the rollers start moving in, nice speedy following swell, growing to four, five meters mastiffs the following morning. Big Genoa is all out, main is reefed and no mizzen keeps the bow plunging down the ridges even on the odd cross-wave. Wind is now turning south-easterly, twenty-five to 35 knots. I had tasted surfing down the massive swell the night before, probably planing here and there without realizing it. It’s easy to explain to the guys how to go about it; most I want is that they feel no unnecessary fear. So we all get to surf the twenty-two tons of boat and peeking at the GPS points of 8, 9, 11 knots simply pop in and out.
Steering gets like dancing mambo, getting down the rhythm of the surge and looking out for the odd one.

The boat gets wetter and wetter, drip after drip the shaking and banging down waves rattled some leaks in. We moved the stern cabin mattress in the corridor to the to be nested in. The rolling has also revealed how badly one water-tank’s cover has been sealed, and plenty of water flowed silently behind the furniture into the bilges, but we can’t be bothered, since the boat drives on well over the average of five knots, which is reflected in the muffled thundering of the hull inside.
The heat is finally with us, and we shed the first clothes: crusty jackets and jumpers, filthy t-shirts of eight days. The situation looks foggy with promises of heavy rain, the swell break out in disorder while changing more southerly, our deck so far reasonably dry even over the big guys is now awash and the going goes uncomfortable. Just a little more. We should have sighted Kandavu, but the heavy sweaty drizzle cancels everything.
On passing the northern part of the Great Astrolabe reef we’re off thirteen miles from it, Augusto’s overzealous caution, but still, better than going for the white line. We can wash a little in rain then finally motor the last two hours for Suva rather than getting in at night or waiting the night out. I can hear port control but they can’t hear me, and their accent is quite odd. After some bad to worse radio attempts I simply ignore it and keep going in. Taking the main down after ten days, with that idiot furler the boat came with wasn’t so smooth. Rain and haziness are heavy, we can hardly see land although we are right by the reef entrance, just the nastiest conditions for a reef entrance. Thanks god for C-map.
We motor right in front of Port Control, and only then I radio again. Ok, no check in right now, go and wait, they order. Fine, we move then to what is indicated as Q anchorage on the charts, drop anchor, and stare at the scene expectantly. Friday December 15th we are finished.
I want to greet the first Fijian with the local greeting, but all we get is the harbour pilot asking us to get out as a big tanker is coming in. And sure enough in the misty rain appears the black shape.
We re-anchor, by the RSYC, which is muddy, shallow out of the way and close to the now idolized commodities. No clearing in today. Wait until Monday!
No cigarettes, repetitive food, no cold beers for ten days, no showers compel me to have a sneak in into Suva.
I carelessly get the dinghy and in bright yellow rain gear brave the streets patrolled by the military. Bainimarama’s Coup is on, AKA the ‘Cleanup campaign’, so every few hundred meters a roadblock is on, mostly soldiers sitting around waving at the passing friends. It’s a late Saturday already, but I go get cash, buy cigarettes and beer, do some Internet and head back to the yacht club.
It is very busy with what looks like a private function, in-fact it is Toyota’s dealership xmas/new year party. I can’t help stopping at the bar for just one beer. Yellow fisherman overalls and squeaky flip-flops in the midst of over-attired Fijians and paalanghis. I sure don’t go unnoticed. Struggling to get out of the beer circle and dreaming of a shower, I head out in the garden, determined to get on my way to the guys aboard, who probably think me already behind bars or in some smoky police office. As soon as I step out of the bar there is no escaping a loud bunch of young Fijians that immediately take me in and won’t let me go until I drank all their beer and eat all of their food. Gosh. Here I am getting drunk in a yellow suit under pouring rain with a bunch of eager boisterous and drunk guys, while all along I promised myself to be as inconspicuous as possible. By the time I manage to get away I must have downed several pitchers of Fiji Gold, and am allowed to leave only under the promise to bring over the rest of the crew and end up the night partying, as one should. The Fijians’ hospitality, cheeriness and unshakable determination to fill my glass makes me do it, actually, and just one hour later the four of us, changed in the last remaining clean clothes, walk in the party: illegal trespassers without a Visa in a tropical island nation under military control. Simply perfect.
We party on at Toyota’s expense, until everyone has left and the beer river has dried. Tables are getting stacked up and still we’re sharing the few last beers and cigarettes, hugging our new friends and denying an outing to a nightclub.
We spend the rest of the weekend working hard to bring back the boat to some kind of order. The constant rain doesn’t help the drying out of cushions and mattresses, but at least we manage to pump out the tank water in the bilges and start getting rid of the bilge oils that floating on water reached up all the way to the galley. Looks like an entire oil change was dumped in a section of the bilge, plus some insulating foam has clogged the automatic bilge tank. Digging out the literal shit I get out a metal bar, a spanner, and a couple kilos of oil soaked foamy cloth. We use up all of the plastic bags and several spare tanks to bottle up the muck.
Monday comes at last, we sneaked in again on Sunday just for showers and a shave, felt like the creation all over again.
Taxi to Customs and Immigration, and two hours and twelve triple copy forms later we are officially in Fiji and free to come go as we please.