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Postcards from Fiji

islands in the sky, islands in the sun. Fiji is a state of mind. A concept in mental placement. Turnstyle drifts through some Obscure holiday thoughts.

15 Jan 2007

It's been raining, well not actually ' we are in the clouds, the mists have come to embrace us, swallow us in gentle dripping moisture, a ghostly breath, I'm wearing shorts. I want the sun ' this weather is refreshing but already tedious.

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Out tonight in the moonlight mists, the weather is cloy clinging, this party will float like a bobbing cork, giggling on the surface, swimming past sullen, pools and puddles of light make islands in this mist, I am a sailor, a dweller of these seas.

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The trees were dripping in my pancakes this morning, but the bacon was hot long enough to please the people from the island. Everyone is arriving, dragging whisping talons and drifts of cloud. The big noise is beginning.

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Fireworks exploding with almost spot pops, wet whistles, a signal flare burning bravely still brings no rescue from the soupy veil. Descending into this night, I have been making cups of tea like a secret potion. The whiskey from last night has soaked me like rain.

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I feel like a sponge, I feel like we are being germinated, super slowly softly soaked in nourishing cloudy kisses. The world recedes to the distance of diffused light, sounds slacken in the air, shattering like raindrops to drift away quietly in the mist. The sea is calm.

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I cooked pancakes in the sun today, I forced the clouds apart and demanded justice for the pancakes, and I willed it happen with fresh mint, lemon and sugar on light fluffy pancakes. The party wants to be over but some people just can't let good thing go. At least I brought the sunscreen

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Fiji 'lifts like a dream out of the blue, the sparkling diamonds of the seas bristles through the clouds, we descend with steam rising off our skin to dive deep into the cool blue. Time begins to unroll here, peeling off like unwanted layers. I feel like going around in giant circles, drifting in the currents.

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The music in the island, bumps and grinds like the pot holes on the road. Old classics swallow your memories whole, while any turn is a reggae remix, I prefer the Bhangra booming like bollywood. The slower you go the faster you feel good. Warm is as cold it seems to get.

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Really, rally, the night brought fresh rain, as the road turns to mud. The bamboo grows high above us, and a mud red river winds into the valley. We climbed high into the forest today, three plank bridges and tight bus corners. The island around us seems so clean, or is that just history overgrown.

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Blowing in the dreamy breeze, reading books in the shade, sunscreen the ritual homage. Walking in the high grass after the noon sun, heat, sweet, into the cool forest we find a deep pool, enough to dive away from our cares in sweeping arcs.

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Round, again, into the city tonight. It's a coup here, soldiers; guns arm the street with the reminder. Is this politics, is this a siege on corruption, is this one strong hand against another and is this the nation in demand? Is this a reflection of all our lives, the gun against the will, the arrogance of might?

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Here everything reminds me of what becomes important. Family, community, love for each other, love for good times, presence in the present. We are all connected by the need to be loved; to be nourished, we all deserve the respect of looking after each other. Fiji, Fiji, republic of resistance.

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Lifting off, climbing back into the sky, the high reality of tomorrow, back into the realization that the eyes must awake. Almost instantly my phone starts ringing in my head, but this all remains, the journey makes a map. I know it's been a while but I'm back soon. Next time you should come too.