Fiji

 
The melon felt heavy in my palm, weighted with golden juice; aroma like warm, ripe summer.  I was surprised to see the fruit in the market.  Most fresh foods seem to take on an ashen cast by the time they reached this small "super" market in Savusavu, a room the equivalent of a fairly sizeable storage barn.    This cantaloupe was neither grey nor wasted.  It smelled delicious and my mouth watered at the thought of adding this to our meager, tasteless dinner.
 
I'd had a problem with the food from the moment I'd arrived in Fiji.  Oh, not in Nadi, where they cater to tourists and have every type of  fast food that could be found.  But I wasn't in Nadi, I was in a tiny harbor town far away from the big island.  And I was worried about food, about having the right mix of protein to starch, the right balance to avoid my frequent hypoglycemic incidents.
 
I'd done my research before flying off to this group of islands more than half way across the planet.  Cassava and taro.  These were the staples of the Fijian diet.  A root plant, the cassava was used to make tapioca, one of my favorite deserts.  At least that's how I had known it to be used.  In Fiji, it was the main starch of the meal:  boiled, fried, fixed in any number of ways to make it interesting, to make it cooperate with the other flavors, but never, never arriving at a flavor that was, to my palate, enticing.  It wasn't the delicious, creamy texture of our potato.  It wasn't one of the many variations of pasta, with wonderful but simple sauces to bath in.  It wasn't anything that tasted remotely like, well, anything.  Bland. Strangely textured.  My tongue recoiled at the feel and taste of the white, earthen vegetable.
 
Taro brought up second place in tastelessness  Even though these two roots were used constantly, day in and day out, by the native Fijians, they failed to excite me in any measure.
 
If the islanders have access to a chicken, they’ll boil its skinny carcass along with the roots, or serve beef, which is very scarce due to the ever-present worms the cows of the islands were host to.  As I drove past these pathetic creatures, I could see the bovine ribs holding up skin which had lost its form and now collapsed into the cow, causing my undying sympathy for those wonderful creatures, and fretting over the lack of care the islanders afforded them.
 
But animals, for Fijians -- for any third world peoples -- are a luxury past their grasp.  You'll seldom see a house pet in Fiji.  Dogs run down the roads in wild packs, scavenging for what food they can find, fighting among themselves for the scraps.  Emaciated, unloved and oh, so sad.  My heart cries when I see the total lack of concern the Fijians have for these creatures.  I had to talk long and hard to myself to find any forgiveness for this negligence.  I knew in my head that when there was only enough food to, perhaps, feed the family, none of it could be "wasted" on mere animals,  but my heart said the animals were here before us humans and should be revered for their persistence against our inhumanity toward them; our extreme cruelty in their treatment, in our neglect of them.  I couldn’t let anyone, no matter their circumstances, off the hook on this issue.
 
There was so much here in the South Seas that was beautiful:  the turquoise ocean,  the coral reefs adding drama to the vista of blue --  reds,
browns, motley collections of color that moved languidly under the water.  The reefs laid claim to an entire über existence under the ocean’s surface.    I
thought of my disgust when travel books talked about Fiji and its beauty -- always touting the high-end resort;  the oceanographic trips for those who
had the money to throw away on dilatant vacations.  I wanted the articles to talk about the real Fiji -- the people who, a scant hundred years ago, still practiced cannibalism. Yes, I found this place remarkably beautiful, tremendously interesting, yet the actual being there seemed to repel me  There was so much that I found almost impossible to accept, impossible to live with.  Yet, I had made a commitment to try, a commitment to see if this could possibly be our second home — our place to retire.  I was obliged to tuck away my judgments and my dislikes.  I was obliged to give it my very best shot.  I had to keep that dialogue going in my mind, fighting to keep my vow to try, so that my ugly prejudices -- which I had always disdainfully criticized others for,  never dreaming I myself could harbor them in my liberal heart -- wouldn't cause the battle to be lost before it had barely begun.  

My prejudice was about the completely foreign life style, the unfamiliarity of thought and action;  the dirt and the lack of sanitation;  the doctor’s office, which was a tiny lean-to with rickety benches on the porch for prospective patients to sit on while waiting in the drenching afternoon sun.  The complete lack of most common creature comforts. It was always easy for me, as a tourist, to travel through a less fortunate country, saying "How quaint!  How delightful!" Now I was actually living in these conditions, socializing with the indiginous people, considering this as a possible residence, and my fears rose up and whispered in my ear "Hey, kid, this ain't America.  Let's get out of here and back to reality."   I felt conflicted.  I felt shame.  I felt sadness.  I felt very alone.
 
It was only too easy to find my mind lapsing into a litany of what was not to my liking.   I would never call myself your typical ugly American.  I have enormous respect for these people who have been uprooted from their traditions and their regions and have been forced into a pseudo-European life -- one that blatantly doesn't mesh with their rich and ancient culture.  But I am, through little fault of my own, spoiled, as most American’s are.  This was the complete flip side of any life I’d ever known.  For the first time, I felt I knew the true meaning of the word foreign.  I felt as if I was drowning in this other-people’s culture.  I was scared at having nothing to identify with.   No music, for theirs is all American rock and roll or Methodist hymns, these people who, a scant hundred years ago, still practiced cannibalism;  these natives who were converted, sad to say, from their joyful primitive life and their gods of weather, ocean and well-being, to our Western God of repression and guilt.   They moved from the comfort of simple grass or cloth skirts — breasts exposed and hanging happily for all to see -- to being covered from toe to neck, the modest Christian dress they were convinced was necessary for the salvation of their souls.

I see the cruelty of communication.  The way movies and television have brought the outside world to these people, leaving them with the desire to
live like the rest of the world, without the means of making it a reality.  I feel heaviness in my heart when I remember the times I was
lied to, cheated and scammed because I looked like a wealthy American (to them, ANY American looked like a wealthy American).  I didn't know that
generosity was a failing here; it was taken as the emblem of the international patsy.  I was amazed to find that the daughter of the town’s minister had named her infant after me:  Andrea Fulton Ade Muhalele.  Of course, with this honor came responsibility;  I was expected to sponsor the child, make sure she had a life filled with the privilege only Western wealth could bring.  The family would be honored in the community, and the child would be assured a prosperous life.  At first I was quite pleased at this honor, but the pleasure faded as I was immediately hit up for money.  And more money.  And yet again, more money.  I was simply a means of support to this family.
       
My profession is music – classical music — but European-influenced classical is something that is completely absent from the islanders’ experience;  it’s  not the hymns and the rock and roll that permeate their culture.  What would I do with my life if we did relocate here?  My work had always offered me an identity.  I felt that without my career, I really didn’t have much else to offer.  But I couldn’t bring my career with me to Fiji.  What would I do?  Who would I become?  My stomach knotted at the thought of disappearing from my known world, moving into a world that had none of my needed familiarity.  Who says that prejudice isn’t based on fear?  Ha!  It’s nothing but fear — fear of the unknown and fear of the unfamiliar.  Fear of getting lost in someone else’s reality.  Deep-rooted, horribly tangible fear.
 
So, here I was with this melon in my palm, wondering whatever had possessed me, after that first State of the Union speech, to tell my partner that I was scared silly of George W. and why not move somewhere far away from this evil administration's grasp?  Could this really have been me suggesting this?  What ever made me flip that little decision-making switch in my brain that started this whole Fiji adventure?
 
I put the melon down.  Better to keep the good flavors to a minimum.  That way, when once again they weren't available, I wouldn't miss them so much.