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.

District and Village Planning Moves Forward

Last week we had a District Resource Planning Workshop in Navave Village. This was the second workshop of a series designed to help communities come together to discuss environmental issues, think about possible solutions, and work toward a solid governance structure/plan for sustainably managing natural resources in our district. 

The first workshop was held in June, after general awareness sessions about eco-system based management principles had been completed in each village. Every village was asked to elect a few representatives to attend the district workshop. It was advised that there should be a mixture of men, women, and youth. Most villages came and there were a few women and youth. At that workshop we identified targets, threats to achieving them, causes of those threats, and potential strategies for addressing them. This exercise is called conceptual modeling.  It was divided into 3 habitat types: terrestrial, freshwater, and coastal/marine. 

After the workshop, the team from our village took the initiative to form their own Yaubula, or environment, committee. They gathered at my house on a Sunday afternoon and planned how to share what they learned at the workshop during the next village meeting. 

At this recent workshop, we revisited the outcomes of the first workshop, because some new people and villages that weren’t able to participate the first go-round were in attendance. We talked more about management rules and strategies, but some of the focus was on building the capacity of the attendees to go back and be agents of change in their communities.

Wildlife Conservation Society, with the help of Seaweb, facilitated the workshop. I was there to provide general support and work with the team from my village.

Some days it can feel like two years of work hasn’t amounted to much because things happen so slowly. And some days it’s all you can do not to give up, especially when some gossipy ol’ lady in your community asks your boyfriend what you’ve been doing all this time. That hurts. But when we attended this workshop we were actually an example for the other villages. My fellow community members were standing up on their own and sharing ideas and strategies for good practices and tips for problem solving. I felt so proud of them!

Real change doesn’t take place over night. But change is happening on Fiji time. 

One lesson that I’ve learned is the importance of building a team in the community. It’s something we’ve learned together. It has taken a lot of trial and error, various projects and committees, building relationships and trust, and just a lot of time learning how things work behind the scenes in a rural village to get to where we are now. But I’m happy to say that we are on our way to writing our own village natural resource management plan. We intend to seek funding for implementation, which will also include some income generating projects. And I’m not doing it alone.

I’d say our biggest advice to other communities wishing to “develop” would be to first take a hard look at your community and the way you work together. There is both the traditional and administrative structure to consider.  There can be a lot of other dividing lines to reach across. If you can identify a few key people to stand up and keep fighting to knock down those divisions -- that’s the best place to start. There’s not a whole lot of use rushing into having any type of community-wide or district-wide plan, if there isn’t a strong foundation for people to work together to implement it.

The more I’m involved in NRM planning activities in Fiji at the various scales (community, district, provincial, national), the more I’ve realized how the key to sustainable resource management is with the communities. They are the ones who are going to be ones on the ground doing the work in the end. 

But the scale at which to do NRM planning is a hot debate. Neither government or NGOs can target every community, there aren’t enough resources. And we must always consider the scale at which ecosystems function. It’s much larger than a village. 

If we can’t engage all communities from the bottom up, the district level isn’t a terrible solution. It can focus on building the capacity of key individuals who can then facilitate the trickling down of information and processes. Taking what they learn back to the communities and being an agent of change. 

One of the best outcomes for me to see at the workshops was communities discussing amongst themselves their unique issues and really considering ways that they could work better together, as a pre-cursor to what will be a later conversation of how the various communities can join together.

That’s not going to be an easy task, to create a working governance structure at the district level. There are subtle rivalries getting in the way. There are sensitive traditional issues people do not like to talk about. I’m akin to some of them, but it is not my place to speak up about them. Our Yaubula Committee is working to build a stronger relationship with our Bose Vanua, or the elders, in our village as a place to start. 

Workshop participants at the Navave workshop. Can you find me? :)

Village Water Project

For the past 2 weeks the village has been super busy building a new dam for our drinking water source and a new water storage tank. Each morning the village headman blows the conch shell to signal it’s a work day for anyone who is free and after morning tea they head off. Last year the Water Authority of Fiji surveyed for this project and we raised the money in the village to contribute 10% of the costs (about $2500 FJD).

The water system in the village consists of a small dam 1.5 km up the mountain that pools water into a 2 inch PVC pipe that is then gravity fed all the way down into a 10,000L cement storage tank before being distributed into the village/settlements. The new dam is about 100m uphill from the old one, and it pools spring water, not creek water into the pipe.

A few issues prompted us to pursue this project. Firstly to improve the quality of drinking water that is now threatened by ever expanding farmland as the village population grows and dirt/silt during times of heavy rain (which is very frequent). The new smaller dam will mean less chances of debris blocking the intake, which also happens regularly during downpours. As the population of the village has skyrocketed in the past few decades (Roman Catholics! :), the need for water storage capacity has also grown --hence the construction of an additional 10,000L tank.

They haven’t let me do much to help with construction besides carry a pipe or two, but I’ve been trying to document the process. It’s been a lot of hard work for the men carrying sacks for gravel, sand, and cement on bare-horse back up the mountain. The women have also been hard at work preparing meals everyday for those who help out. We have a few guests from Water Authority in town staying to oversee the completion. They are on track to complete the tank this week, and perhaps switch us to the new water source the following.

In conjunction with the building of the new infrastructure, we’re working the village elders and environment committee to set up a 100m radius protected area around each of our drinking water dams (there is another one that supplies a few of the settlements) where farming will be prohibited and some reforestation of native trees will be done. 

Here are a few pictures of what has been completed so far! 

Mold for the new dam.

Building the dam.

 

View on the way down from the dam site. Ugly, eh?

Planting to help stabilize the soil.

Planting trees along edge of plantation near source. Will do more reforestation once plants are harvested.

Foundation for the new water storage tank.

Hauling gravel and sand up the mountain.

Me just trying to help out :)

New dam.

A Village Affair

When I left the States for Fiji, I was fully prepared to deal with the fact that I could be quite lonely and celibate for most, if not all, of my two year service. Who would apply for PC knowing that they may be sent to some far corner of the world, if they weren’t prepared otherwise? (Well, maybe more people than you’d think, but I digress.)

Some volunteers are placed in towns or cities where there may be a dating pool larger than the kitchen sink, but when I was placed in a traditional communal village of about 560 people, the last thing on my mind was dating. First off, the village headman had placed a tabu on me so that no boys would bother me. Secondly, I was supposed to call everyone Dad or brother or uncle. And third, all my attention was on trying to figure out how to learn to live and work in a culture and climate entirely different than what I was familiar with. Thankfully, seven weeks in a host village during training had prepared me for some of it.

But after almost 2 years in country, the picture became little different. I felt at home in my community. I had normal relationships. I knew who really treated me like an adopted family member, who wanted to work together, and who just liked saying there is an America girl living in their village. I started to feel like I had carved out a respective place for myself. And I had a full understanding of the microscope that I lived under and just how rampant the coconut wireless can be!

With all that considered, it was still scary as my bare feet tip-toed closer to crossing the line into village dating! It’s not like I woke up one day and was like, I’m going to date a local. It just happened.  But once I realized it was happening, it didn’t seem there was any great way of going about it. In the States there would be a normal period where you could go on a few dates, test the waters, see how you fared on the other side of the friend-line before you’d even have to mention to anyone that you were seeing someone, let alone call them your significant other. But here? A boy comes over for tea and you are most definitely sleeping together, and some people start planning your wedding.

I guess it must have really began when I quit calling him brother…  when he started stopping by just to say hi and bringing me goodies like banana or papaya or taro leaves from his plantation…when I realized that I was extremely attracted to the young fellow who had been my friend and frequent companion for over a year. I kept berating myself, telling myself N-O…. until one day he kissed me and I threw my hands up in the air and said yes instead. I didn’t know where it was going to go, but that was okay because it was our secret that, well, I guess we knew wasn’t that secret.

It was pretty quick that we came to realize how we had each somehow found someone across the divides of age and culture that we could have so much fun with, be so compatible with. Such a wonderful surprise! Something we were, and still are, so excited about. However, until I left for my home leave in the US this July, it was still a semi-secret. There was some gossip, and we hadn’t yet dealt with the fact that it was technically against the rules for him to date me. Additionally, I had perpetuated the misunderstanding that PCVs are not allowed to date in the village in order to ward off previous unwanted suitors.  Whoops.

So when I left for home leave, he got on the ferry with me to Suva without telling anyone. We knew this was not the right thing for him to do, so as soon as we got to town he called his family and told them he was with me. His uncle whom he lives with was not angry, but only wanted to know why we didn’t tell him beforehand. In honesty, we were both scared and uncertain of how to go about it and what the outcome would be. But now it was out in the open, with him missing from the village, and we had to make plans for how to deal with it upon return.

As I didn’t know the proper Fijian protocol, I deferred to Solo for advice on what we should do. He said we needed to do a forgiveness ceremony, called a mata-ni-gasau. It sounded intimidating, but it’s more of a traditional protocol than a ceremony, and there is protocol involving most everything in the village. Solo and I would have to go to the family with whom he lives (his uncle and one of his many grandmothers), present yaqona (kava), apologize, and declare our relationship.

And this is exactly what we did. Solo worked and stayed with family on Viti Levu until I returned from the US. We took the ferry back to the village on a Saturday and the next day after church we went to his family together. Solo had helped me practice what to say in Fijian beforehand. I told them I was sorry I took Solo to Suva, that we were dating, and that I had already told the Peace Corps and they said it was okay. I choked up and mispronounced a few words, but I guess it went okay. They could tell I was sorry and they asked, as Solo had told me they would, if I really liked/loved Solo or if it was just a casual thing. I told them in our dialect, Au gu’i  heya dina saraga. (I really care for/want/love him.) Then we mixed a basin of the grog we had brought, and all drank a few bilos (coconut shells) to seal the deal.

My Coconut Cowboy

Solo’s real name is Solomone, Fijian for Solomon --as in the biblical king. He was born in the village, but moved away to another town on our island when he was three. He was raised by his grandmother and grandfather, and attended a primarily Indo-Fijian school where he learned to speak English and Hindi too. (Fiji’s population is about 30+% Indian heritage). He left school in Form 5, which is equivalent to 11^th grade in the States. I do not know the statistics, but I would say it is uncommon for rural male Fijians to finish secondary school. He moved to the main island and stayed with family in the West for a few years before returning to the village to farm in early 2012. That’s when we met.

Solo stood out to me when he finally worked up the confidence to talk to me --he is pretty shy at first. He was young, but he seemed to look at things differently than other people in the village. He is mature for his age, having been on his own quite a bit.  We built up a solid friendship over the coming year. He is so much fun and his youthfulness is infectious. He helps me to remember not to sweat the small things and to try and appreciate every day -- Fijians are very good at that. We have a blast together. We go on mini-adventures to the sea and plantation. We do village-y do-it-yourself things together like make wine, brooms, and virgin coconut oil. He helps me practice my Fijian and better understand what’s really going on in the village.

Perhaps we are forced to communicate better because of our cultural differences, and that is probably a good thing. We are comfortable telling each other how we feel. We have to be because sometimes the same thing can mean something completely different in our respective cultural context or sometimes we just plain don’t understand what the other is saying! We speak some interesting half Fijian/half English… but it works!

Solo farms yaqona and dalo (taro root), like most of the men in our village. He is considering going back to school next year, but it’s a big decision to return to the classroom when he’s basically considered a man in the community. I want to support him in whatever decision he makes.  We’ve had many conversations about how finishing school might open up more opportunities, for instance, if he decides to move out of the village. We don’t know what this coming year will bring, but we’re determined to enjoy our time together here and stay strong in face of some of the challenges we encounter being together in the village.

 Although I’m certain the village will remain a part of my life in the future, this will probably be my last year living here full time. So I’m also determined to take advantage of that, always trying to appreciate the people and the gorgeous setting.

And the gorgeous brown boy who rode bareback into my heart ;)

Solo and me in Suva. We did some normal date things and it was a blast. He loved sushi :)

Just a regular day at work.

Solo in traditional garb before taking part in a formal presentation of kava to the chief.