We're Getting Hitched!

Solo courted me with coconuts, bananas, and play dates in the sea. He took the time to explain the intricacies of village tradition and helped me feel at home. He taught me the Fijian word for the Milky Way and that the moon has a wife. He told me a three hour bedtime story about the history of his clan, including the name of every single third cousin, and how they came to be here. He has a big heart and a certain disregard for the rules. A perfect combination! Together we just have so much damn fun!

It wasn’t until one day when we were riding bareback on his horse down the beach at low tide when I felt the butterflies deep in the pit of my stomach. I had begun to fall for this young man who I was supposed to call “brother”, this coconut cowboy who blatantly defied the tabu placed on my head. I tried so hard to suppress it because I knew there’d be trouble. Alas, I failed, and so we became partners in crime in a pseudo-incestuous, pseudo-secret affair.

Our decision to get married was one initially prompted by Solo looking over at me as we sat together months later on that same beach and him saying out of the blue like it wasn’t a big deal, "I don’t know about you, but I know I could spend my whole life with you."

Deep inside me I tangibly felt a changing of the tides. It was a really big deal! The wall built up around my heart was washing out to sea. I was letting love happen to me.

Later I told Solo that it didn’t feel official, that I wanted him to ask me to marry him. He said, "Like in the movies?!" So I hunted for a local pearl and a local jeweler, and the rest he planned… kinda like in the movies ;)

When we rented a house in Savusavu for Christmas, Solo worked with the caretaker to prepare a romantic dinner on the beach. He hid my ring in a bouquet of flowers he picked and wrapped in tin foil. He was so sweetly nervous as he told me how much he cared about me and asked me to marry him (in English).

Of course I said "Io"! (Yes!) And bawled like a baby.

After dinner I asked him what he'd say in Fijian, and it made it that much more special to hear it in his native tongue. 

I never thought I would get proposed to by a man in a skirt, but I couldn't be happier and can't wait for what's to come in 2014!

The Plantation

This weekend was the first day Solo and I went to the plantation together to actually work. I’ve gone with him to pick food, but that’s not really working that’s just getting dinner. 

“Going to the plantation” really means hiking up into the jungled hills behind the village. We followed the old, two-track road part way up through the pine plantation. The first time I saw one of these spindly pine stands in Fiji, I was a little shocked. They take me back to the highland American West and seem out of place in the tropics. A local forester told me that pine is one of the only easy things to replant after a clear cutting. I’ve asked around the village: “What was there before the pine? What was there before the grassy hillsides?” “Only our grandparents knew.” There’s nowhere to go and look it up. But I’ve heard them tell stories of rainbows of birds and read in the history books of how Bua was one of the first places foreigners came to clear the once great stands of sandalwood. 

We veered off on a path sloping down into the valley below. I try to remember to look up every now and again from futilely dodging mud holes to take in the scenery. It’s a beautiful place we live. Solo didn’t spend his life in these hills; he doesn’t know it the way he knows Seaqaqa, but he knows it better than any map could ever explain. Every place has a name, never written down. “There was an old settlement here. This is where so and so used to farm. That big tree is where a spirit lives.”

We made our way down to the valley bottom and followed the creek uphill. Because Solo is starting a new plantation, it doesn’t have a well traveled path from this side. It’s nice walking in the creek anyway. It’s cool and shady.

Solo and I are planning to go to the US next year to visit for the holidays. Although it’s more than a year off, he has to plant now in order to be able to harvest in time. It takes anywhere between 8-12 months to harvest dalo (taro root) depending on the species, weather, etc. There is no bank account from which to withdraw. You plant, you harvest, you sell. That’s where money comes from.

Our relationship flourishes when we each make efforts to understand where the other is coming from. I want to support Solo in what he does and I want him to support me. We come from very different places but our love exists in some mixed up place in the middle that no one can really understand. 

Solo jokes with me and says how he never dreamed he’d be taking a white girl to work on the farm with him. I laugh and tell him he lucked out to get a country girl like me, because there’s plenty of fancy girls out there who don’t like to get dirty. He says that I’m right, and we talk again about how funny it is that the world brought us together.

Another reason I wanted to come and help is because his other plantation was poached. And it’s kind of indirectly my fault. One of his cousins harvested all Solo’s kava plants when we were both away. Some of them were very old. When he sold them we hear he got a few thousand dollars, but we’ll never know the exact amount. Kava grows for at least 3 years before you harvest it. The longer it grows the bigger it gets and the more money you make because it’s sold by the kilo. That was going to be the start of Solo’s money to put towards building a house someday.

A large number of young men in the village are jealous/ angry/who knows what, and it’s no secret that it has something to do with me. Some quietly and some not so quietly disowning or turning against Solo. It breaks my heart, but then again they might not be bad “friends” to lose. Solo’s too much a pacifist to demand justice. He says that when someone takes something from him that it’s very hard for him to ask for it back. In some ways I wish I was more like that, not automatically wanting to seek revenge. In others ways, I wish he’d raise a ruckus. May karma right things in time.

We are each others’ support systems against all the village drama, of which I am no longer immune to. I crossed some superficial sweet spot on the integration scale. It’s good in a way. I guess it makes me able to relate just a little bit more to my colleagues/neighbors/family/friends. (Talk about blurred lines…) 

We are not dwelling on it, but keeping on keeping on!

Each of us armed with a cane knife (machete), we begin our laborious mission of taming the wild. I think of the greed behind “manifest destiny” and those whom tamed the American wilds. I think of the idea of “last frontier”. 

Here, making a small clearing in the forest, we will plant and harvest. We will get our crops, but it will take a fight. It has been cleared before. Solo points to the old yavu, terraced foundations for houses.  It is hard to imagine the land ever being clear as my muscles start to burn from the constant swinging of my machete. It reminds me of swinging an ax. Maybe Solo can read my mind because he asks me to tell a story about the trail work I used to do in America.

We work for two hours. Solo could go all day, but he’s being nice to me. I’m out of shape for manual labor. I have blisters on my hands and a painful bee sting on my face. With the clearing he did the day before, and our work today, he’ll be able to plant 500 dalo. If he’s lucky he can get $1000. Next he’ll have to find dalo tops to plant and then turn the soil by hand.

We’re both drenched in sweat and covered in debris. We grab our empty water bottle and trudge our way back to the creek. It’s at least 20 degrees cooler under the shade of the ancient grove of ivi trees. There is a swimming hole, cold and clean. We jump in and relax on the submerged boulders. I am spent. I am in awe of place and person. 

Even Further into the Bush

Since we were busy in the village during my birthday, Solo and I decided to take a little excursion the weekend afterward. We traveled northward five hours by bus to Seaqaqa, the place where he grew up, to visit his Mom, step-father, and sisters.

Seaqaqa location on Vanua Levu

I hadn't taken the bus north out of Nabouwalu since May! They have been making a lot of progress on the road. They are paving the 69km from Nabouwalu to Dreketi, building 14 high-standard bridges, and 240 culverts. This is going to be a major highway for the North. I was trying to calculate how many millions of truckloads of dirt are being moved, but it made my brain hurt!

Moving earth for the new road.

It's going to be a real highway. I can't even imagine it.

 When we got off the bus at Seaqaqa we paid for a truck to take us to the settlement where Solo's family  lives. We were dropped off on the side of a small dirt road in the middle of some fields and trekked a mile into the woods, tottered across log stream crossings with our bags, and finally reached their house in a clearing in the coconut trees. Such a solitary setting was quite a change from our village where we are surrounded by dozens of other households.

Seaqaqa hills.

Solo at the front door.

The house was quaint but it was in a beautiful setting at the base of the foothills. There was no bathroom or shower. We bathed in the river and peed in the yard. Luckily years of working on trail crew didn't even make me blink an eye about this. We did a small sevusevu, relaxed, went running with some of Solo's cousin-brothers and met lots of extended family and friends around the grog bowl.

On Sunday we walked the mile to the local Methodist church. We sat on the floor and a nice lady let me share her hymnal so I could join in the singing. The preacher thanked Solo for returning to where he grew up. It was kind of a big deal in the Fijian tradition of taking me to be properly introduced to his family. Solo was born in our village and is part of the landowning clan there, but he was brought up my his grandmother and Mom in Seaqaqa. His Mom just got remarried last year. She comes to visit in the village every so often. 

Walking to church.

Nadogo Methodist church.

Solo's little sis, Sia, at church.

On the way to church Solo's Step-dad, Mo Peipei, entertained me with large insects! If you catch a kakalu (cicada) and trap it in your hands, it will cry and others will come flocking to you.

My new uncle with a swarm of cicadas on his back.

Closeup of the kakalu, or cicada.

Dead cicada "shells".

 Solo tried to explain the cicada life cycle to me in Fijian, but I was uncertain, so I looked it up. So neat that he knew all about it without ever having learned it in a science class at school.

Cicada life cycle. ( http://www.massaudubon.org/Nature_Connection/wildlife/index.php?subject=Insects&id=4 )

They have a resident chicken who just showed up one day out of the bush and decided to make herself at home. She comes inside everyday and lays eggs on the bed. There are no boy chickens around. They just got super lucky and named her "Lady".

Solo and "Lady" :)

The mini-trip was great. It was nice to share something kind of special with Solo. We didn't end up being able to get his birth certificate and the local school has no record of him ever attending, but we didn't let that get us down for more than a few minutes. We got a new birth certificate in town and applied for his passport in Savusavu where I spent a few days working. As for school, we're still working on that...

One Monkey Don't Stop the Show

I’ve never considered myself a runner, but I run. I got into running in high school when friends on the cross-country team recruited me just to have enough girls to make a full team (you needed 5). It wasn’t really a priority for me, but I trained with them during summers and ran in meets that didn’t interfere with soccer games. I remember clearly the first time I ran more than three miles. It seemed like such a big accomplishment at the time. 

I started to run on my own after that. I ran to stay fit. I ran through teenage angst. I ran through heartbreaks. I ran to try to get off those freshmen 15.

 Now I run mostly because there isn’t a whole lot else I can do. Because I live on a dirt road along a beautiful coastline. Because it sets an example for others to be physically active. Because it clears my head. 

In my area, I am the white girl who runs. I am sure many other PCVs have similar labels based on activities they do that local people do not do. I’ve been asked if I am a soldier. No, I just want to be healthy is apparently not an acceptable response. But they get it, kind of. The boys all train for rugby matches during different times of the year. So each day as I head down to the road, I am greeted by friendly questions asking if I am going training. And each day I say yes. 

Sometimes this has been true -- that I have been training, that is. I trained and ran my first half-marathon in New Zealand in early 2012. I began training for a full marathon early this year, because, Hey, why not? I was not however, successful in achieving this goal.

There is always risk running on your own. Anywhere. As an adolescent Dad would tell me horror stories of girls who would go jogging and all that were later found were their running shoes. I never wanted to be one of those girls. But I also didn’t want fear to stop me from enjoying life. You have to calculate your risks in everything, I suppose. 

I feel safe running in my area. Everyone knows me, and people along the road are looking after me. If I didn’t come back, there would be a search party. I don’t run at night but early evening when there is reasonable traffic. Now, Solo usually runs with me thanks to the pair of old running shoes, or “canvas”, that Sarah left when she came to visit.

I don’t really feel safe running in town, and especially Suva. There are so many people, not to mention they don’t know me, and the city just plain makes me nervous because of how busy it is. However, in May when I was about half way into my training schedule for the marathon, I had to take a trip to Suva and couldn’t really afford to lose training time because of it. I headed out on a Sunday morning for a 13 mile run. I figured this would be the best time to run because most people would be in church. It was a little after 8am when I started. I felt a little awkward because in the village it is tabu for me to run on Sundays, but I wasn’t in the village. I also couldn’t get anyone to go with me because I guess 13 miles can be a bit much.

Somewhere around mile 10 a man jumped me from behind and tackled me off the side of the road. In the first second I thought it was someone coming up behind me like they often do in the village and hugging me. Who is this I know in Suva? In the second moment my instincts kicked in, my heartbeat skipped; there was a horrible pit in my stomach. This is a bad person.

 I was rounding a bend in the road where houses were just out of view. We did not roll down the hill, which was probably his plan. He pulled at my clothes, he kissed at my neck and face, his hands were in my shorts. I was screaming, kicking, and punching. I hit his face hard. Somehow my finger got into his mouth and he bit down, hard. I kept screaming and writhing. The houses are just out of site. Oh please someone hear me! Why can’t I yell like a cheerleader? He does not have a weapon. Keep fighting! You aren’t going to die. This is what I remember thinking. 

Miraculously, I heard cars coming! Three cars drove towards us and he got up and ran. I got up too. I was waving my arms at the cars and pointing at the man running away. He was barefoot. He was wearing baggy jean shorts, or three-quarters as they call them here. He had a blue baseball cap in his hand. He wasn’t much taller than me.

The cars drove past. I was so angry. I was so scared. I was bawling. I was alone.

The cars had turned up the road in the direction he ran, and so he turned and ran back down the other way, past the intersection where I was walking towards. I screamed at the top of my lungs, FUCK YOU! He turned and looked, surprised, but kept on running. I could hear the futileness of my scream as it echoed off nothing and met no other ears.  

I felt so helpless. I didn’t know what to do. It all happened so fast and then it was over. Adrenaline pumped through my veins. I am okay. I am lucky. 

One of the vehicles turned around and stopped for me. It was a kind, old Indo-Fijian man in a nice SUV. He asked if I was okay, where I was staying. He gave me a ride back to the PCV’s house where I was staying. I should have got his info, he was a witness. But I wasn’t thinking. You shouldn’t run by yourself, he said. I know, I know.

 

Carol was so sweet in helping me call the PC staff. I called our Safety and Security Officer, who immediately called the PC doctor, who came right over even though she was in church. He also called our Country Director who arranged to meet us at the office right away. I waited to shower until the doc had a look over. Besides some scrapes from the fall, my bitten finger was the only physical worry. Mentally, I was numb. I didn’t know what I was supposed to feel. I laughed as I told the S&S officer how I punched the man in the face, but it was a strange foreign laugh. I didn’t feel like I should be upset. I hadn’t actually gotten raped. Other women have endured much worse. A kind of forced stoicism came over me. Be strong, I told myself. And there were no more tears.

Peace Corps treated the issue efficiently and gently. It was my call whether or not to take the matter to the police. It was my call if I wanted to take some leave. There would be counseling available if I wanted it. What I wanted were hugs.

We went to the police. More of a matter of principle than me expecting any sort of justice to ever come of it. As far as taking leave, it happened that the very next day my two best girlfriends were landing in Nadi and we were to be briskly whisked off on a boat to paradise. 

Paradise seemed very far away as I sat in the police station and filled out a police report, re-telling the story for the 6^th time while a blood-crusted drunkard caused a ruckus in the other room. I wish the policewoman and my Security Officer would just fricking speak in English to me! It was not the time to be pushing my language skills!

There was not much more we could do at that point. The Fiji police have vehicles few and far between. (And I just realized as I write this that they do not carry weapons.) There would be no hunt. The only chance of capture would be if he were turned in for a similar offense. Then I could be called in to try and identify him. 

My girlfriends were boarding a plane in LA and I knew that the best antidote to the feelings of hurt and hatred would be the love they were bringing. That and a week spent half naked basking in the sun, a world away from the real Fiji, with something rummy in my tummy.

It was a grand time out at Octopus Resort in the Yasawas. Highly recommended!

But after a week of this…

 

… it was back to reality. And reality kind of bit… like a lot. I am so thankful my girls were here, even if I wasn’t ready to open up and talk about anything. There were lots of held back tears. I had to revisit the scene of crime, for lack of better words, twice on the day we went back in Suva. PC and I had to go pick up the lady constable in charge of the new Sexual Assault Unit because she had no transport. I had to fill out yet another report, telling the story over again. Get me back to Bua, snap!

It was so fun having the girls in the village. That deserves an entire post. I finally broke down in Solo’s arms. We cried together as he held me on my kitchen floor, the girls sleeping in the other rooms. There was something about having man with strong arms whose only intention was to love me and not hurt me, who held me as I cried, who promised to be my protector, that made me feel better than even my best girlfriend’s could. 

I don’t hate anyone, but I hate you

Your nameless face who tried to hurt me

I hate you because you didn’t succeed

And yet I’m left in fear

Your ghost runs behind me

I feel you following me around each bend

Over and over you pounce

You and the multiplicity of your rotten self

On innocent souls all over the world

For me it is just fear

For many a worse reality

Fuck you. Fuck your diseased spirit.

Sometimes you overtake me

But in the end I win.

We win.

Those who keep on running.

It took me a while to be ready, but I wanted to share this story because I know that there are many others, and many Peace Corps Volunteers, who have faced similar, and much worse, scenarios. I wanted to share this story because I want to banish the fear that man left with me. I want to forgive him. 

Love conquers hate.