The Other Side of Paradise: (My Life in Fiji)

By Jacqueline D. Brown

Finally, living my dream to live on a tropical island. After two touristy weeks, I became emerged in the real Fiji. I met people and made friends but mostly, I found out what life was really like for a single woman living abroad. There were good times and bad times and I soon found out what life was really like behind the smiling faces and long lean palms. It was another story and this one is mine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781626752047

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9781626752047

DREAM BUBBLES

CHAPTER 1

After what seemed like forever but was little more than ten hours, we were flying over Viti Levu, the largest island of the Fiji group. It was so green and full of trees and hills that I couldn’t see any roads or houses, and I wondered as I leaned to look out the window at my new island home what it had in store for me.

A van had been sent to take some of us to the Coral Coast hotels. I had made arrangements with my travel agent and paid a month in advance for a house on the beach. Everybody climbed in but I had to wait and make sure all my luggage was aboard. The man, a Fijian Indian, gave me a how-long-you-going-to-stay-here look before throwing my last piece in the back.

As we passed attractive resorts and a passenger or two would get out, I kept hoping that one was mine or that my house was near. Finally, after everyone was gone except me, he pulled into the gravel driveway of the Korotogo Lodge—the absolute worst place of all the places we had stopped or passed by. And I had paid 30 days in advance for this place. It was a skin cover above being a seedy motel. Where was the house on the beach that I had paid for?

He let me out, went to the back of the van, and made several trips for my luggage, which he dropped on a small red porch with small wooden benches on each side.

I don’t know where Sonja is. She was supposed to meet you.

"Oh." I looked around at the three lean, sickly papaya trees that leaned against the stairs leading up to the entrance of the three units.

Namaste.

I looked around and saw Sonja. She had brown blotchy skin and short, straight black, thin hair. She was short, middle-aged, and getting plump. She looked at my luggage, then the van driver did the same and looked at her. They shook their heads in disbelief. Seven overstuffed suitcases consisting of a large red nylon thing on wheels, a nice black Pierre Cardin garment bag and various other pieces that did look out of place at this old redwood fading motel with more gravel than grass.

Ignoring their glances, I just stacked my bags to the side so Sonja could open the door and I could step into my new home.

I was appalled. The smell of mildew, dust, and age assaulted my nose. I don’t know what kind of expression I had on my face, but I know I froze on the threshold.

"Is it all right?" I nodded and stepped into what would be my home for a month—after all, I had paid in advance, but for a house by the ocean.

This was a motel in its last days and badly in need of a cleaning, but the beach was two minutes across the road and through some bush.

With a welcome to Fiji, Sonja and the van driver left me alone with my seven pieces of luggage.

Left alone, I surveyed my new surroundings: one big room consisting of a small imitation wood table, two plastic chairs with blue backs and seats, a long counter with a sink, and a two-burner gas hot plate.

And underneath was a silver cylinder containing gas. Now this scared me because I wasn’t used to having gas so close. I didn’t touch it, just hoped it was turned on and high enough. There were two plain white cups and sauces, two plates, and assorted silverware. Two tins: one contained tea and the other sugar. A small, off-white, barely cooling refrigerator sat next to the counter.

An old red leather couch with its seams coming loose sat against one wall. A small nondescript table, almost as long as the couch, was placed in front of it. It was an off-brown, I guess.

Circling my luggage, I ventured into the bathroom. Lord have mercy. The floor was bare concrete that had never been swept. The toilet was black inside—and I do mean black—and there was no toilet paper. A showerhead with one knob—meaning, I assumed no hot water—hung on the opposite side of the room with no enclosure. There was a drain hole with a cover, thank goodness

Nah, this is not going to work, I said aloud, hurriedly leaving the room. And what bothered me the most was that I had paid for the place in advance.

Picking up my garment bag to carry it into the bedroom, I tripped and almost fell headlong into the wall because the bag was open at the end. Someone in one of the airports must have grabbed it by the buckle that fastened the two sides instead of by the handle, and broke it. Okay. I carried it to the bedroom to hang it in the closet. No closet. A two-by-three board connected two vertical pieces of varnished wood across the top. A short rod with three hangers hung there like maids waiting to take my things. I pulled the hook out of my Pierre Cardin garment bag with the broken strap that couldn’t be fixed. The zipper was pulled back on one of the pockets. I stuck my hand in and it was empty. I guess when whoever broke the strap saw that the inside was open like the stomach of a downed gazelle; he stuck his hand in and grabbed the innards: my new pants and tops that I had ordered from the new clothing section of Victoria’s Secret. I was pissed, but it fit in with everything else.

I hung up a few things and stuck the pieces of luggage back in a corner. There were two single beds, each with a thin, red plaid coverlet. I chose the one I would sleep in and dared pull back the cover. There was only a four-inch foam mattress lying on a wood frame. By now, I was ready to sit down and cry. I didn’t want to sit on that bed, and needed to wipe the couch off first.

I was in the process of doing this when someone knocked on the door. Sonja. She stepped in, looking around. Here, I bought you some toilet paper and sheets for the bed. Instead of handing them to me, she walked into the bedroom, her large doe eyes surveying everything. Is it all right? You like it?

Sonja, that toilet is awful. Can you clean it? And can you check the gas? I don’t know how to work it.

Well, can you help me make the bed? I’ve been sick. I got high blood pressure. I told Shue I need some help. I can’t do everything here and take care of my house. And we have a young daughter.

I helped her make the bed, and she left. So, what was her speech about? She’s not going to clean the toilet? Hopscotching through the bathroom, I made it to the shower with shower shoes for my first cold shower. It wasn’t pleasant.

Dressed in a sulu—a wide piece of cloth wrapped around my waist like a sarong—and a cropped top, I opened the bottle of Asti Spumante that my supervisor had given me as a going-away present, poured a glass, and went to sit on one of the small benches made into the cozy porch by my door.

Jim—the night watchman, if you will—was there, dressed in a shiny green parka, fur-lined hood and all. He stood on the other side of the porch, staring at me as if I were some specimen under a glass. Here I was—from another country, but looking like a Fijian girl. And I looked at him—six-two, two-twenty, short coarse hair, broad features—looking like almost any Afro-American. He said he was cold. I was comfortable. It was hot back in Los Angeles in July, but in Fiji it was winter.

I leaned back on the hard bench, named the constellations and marveled at the Southern Cross in the clear night air while relaxing to the roar of waves breaking over the reef. Things weren’t so bad; after all, I was in Fiji.

Later, after finishing most of the Asti Spumante, Jim—had declined a drink—left to walk around the small compound as part of his security duties. I listened to the loud, hypnotic sound of crickets and inhaled the smell of night-blooming jasmine. They lulled me into a state of total peace, when out of nowhere, the smell of new blood reached the nostrils of Fiji’s mosquitoes and I was bombarded with stings and bites until forced to go in.

I hadn’t bought a radio with me. It was after midnight, and though this was supposed to be a resort of sorts, it was quiet. A quiet that bounced off your ears with the cricket sounds and reminded you of walking through woods alone. With nothing to do, I got ready for bed. Covering the toilet seat with three layers of toilet tissue, I used it and vowed to get cleanser at the store to clean it. It was obvious Sonja wasn’t going to do it, or it would have been done.

Pulling on socks so my feet wouldn’t touch the sheets, finding my one long-sleeved knee-length cotton gown, and scratching myself silly, I climbed onto the single bed. I curled my legs up in the gown as best I could, wrapped my arms around me so my hands wouldn’t touch anything, pulled the cover up to my neck, and lay there listening to the night sounds that included the buzz of mosquitoes and the roar of the ocean. I stared at the ceiling until I slept my first night’s sleep in Fiji.

Bang! Bang! Hello. Bula. Namaste. Miss Brown. Miss Brown?

Yeah? I staggered to the door. It was Sonja with her daughter: a cute, skinny, long-legged 11-year-old with a bob haircut. Staring at them through the screen with blurry eyes, I tried to smile.

Can I come in? I brought you some hangers.

Okay. I stepped aside and she stepped in, followed by her daughter. They quickly looked over the living room and went into the bedroom. I saw her look at her daughter as they counted my pieces of luggage. They exchanged a few words in Hindi, laughed, then remembered me.

Is everything all right? You like the place? She looked around like an inspector. There was nothing I could have torn up in the short time I’d been there, and certainly nothing I wanted

Yes, it’s okay.

She looked at me and I looked back at her. "If you need anything, let me know. We live over the store on the corner. I’m not well but I try to do the best I can. Shue won’t hire anybody to help me.

Really? What more could I say? If you can’t do the job, perhaps you shouldn’t be running a motel. In her defense, she had left a bowl with a couple of bananas, a mango, and some beautiful red and yellow hibiscuses on the table as a welcome. They left.

After showering and trying not to step in the layers of dirt, I dressed and went to the store. Fresh bread and tea would start my day. I enjoyed bread, butter, and tea; the soft call of mourning doves; and the ever-present roar of the ocean, like a train rushing toward you but stopped by the reef, breaking into so many pieces as it splashed over and rolled with a whimper to the shore.

This was the start of my first full day in my new home country. I dressed in a white shorts set with black markings like Chinese characters that one of my co-workers had given me as a going away present, put on a wide-brimmed straw hat and sandals, and left for town.

CHAPTER 2

The road to town was mostly straight and smooth, with a thin yellow line separating the approaching cars. I still tighten when I remember the Toyota bearing down on us from the wrong side of the street. But it zoomed on past, just barely missing a compact that chose the wrong time to pass the bus. It sped up and made it back into the lane in front of us