Eve*

Darryl met her on the corner of Flying Kites Road while I was exchanging dollars into shillings at the local bank.  She was dressed in a red and white checked skirt and navy blue sweater – a school uniform – but said that she couldn’t afford her dues.  Instead, she strolled the streets.  Many of the townsfolk hissed at her, or conversely, they paid her no mind.  Darryl polished her nails – small, skinny fingers – while she leaned against a dilapidated building next to a bike.  Her smile was transfixing and mischievous; her skin was perfection.  Eve*.

As we made our way up the winding, muddy, mile-long road toward Flying Kites Leadership Academy, Darryl’s little friend followed.  Together, they talked in the same way that Leila, Justine, and I chatted ahead of them.  Or so it seemed.  As we entered Flying Kites, a massive campus of lush, green land, laundry lines, classrooms, and the shrieks of happy children, Eve demurred.

Flying Kites is a place that helps the most needy children in the Njabini community.  Most are orphans, though in a few rare cases, Kites requests custody of a child on the basis of abuse.  Two of the children, siblings, were taken from a mother that tried to boil them alive.  Yes, it gets that bad.  Darryl and I were lucky enough to spend time at the center before our Kilimanjaro climb, a climb that celebrated the very children rocking and rolling around us.  Over a hundred little faces met me on arrival.  My breath caught, my eyes welled; Flying Kites exudes a special feeling.  The place is a heaven (and a haven) for the many that pass through its gates and it translates.  Immediately.

“Auntie, Auntie,” scream these tiny, virtual strangers.  Here, in Kenya, elders are “Auntie” and “Uncle,” making it hard to resist the heartstring pull of such sweet, vibrant kids, regardless of the snot dripping from their noses, or the crust caught in the corners of their eyes.  Every one of them wants (and warrants) my attention.  “Auntie, watch me!” says Sylvester, as he throws a Frisbee.  “Auntie, watch me!” says Rahab, as she jumps rope.  “Auntie, read me a story,” says Lucy Obama – a self-designated moniker that evolved when a second Lucy entered the facility.

Willis is hiding behind a volunteer’s leg; Miriam is playing with the new kitten, Matilda; Moses is in back with a cage of bunnies.  They beg me to take their photo; they giggle uncontrollably when they see their own image.  Like monkeys, they crawl and climb all over me.  They hug, and they kiss; affection is in abundance.  Sarah and John have recently joined the crew.  They are reticent and quiet, and unlike the others, they don’t seek out attention.  When I hear the circumstances that preceded the arrivals of the others, it’s easy to see just how Flying Kites puts lives back together again.  Sarah and John will be wreaking havoc in no time, I’m sure…

A steady stream of volunteers passes through the home to help Sarah, Brian, and Frannie – celebrities in their own right – keep Kites ticking.  There’s the 40-something breast cancer survivor traveling alone for the first time, the Backstreet Boy-esque duo who brought their own Peter Luger sauce and circuit training ropes for backyard exercise, the 16-year old student who came armed with a duffle-bag full of kid-sized Crocs, and the quick-tongued Newport-based college senior who was leaving as we arrived.  In that short, three days of time, I saw how the characteristics of the volunteers, vastly different in every way, matched the spirit of the children. 

On the Day of the African Child, a national holiday that commemorates the Soweto riots of 1970’s, a feast for the leaders of the Njabini community takes place at Kites.  Of course, the generator blows when the reggae band plugs in, but the candlelight sets a lovelier mood.  The kids are on fire, dancing and singing to local gospel sensation Jimmie Gait, conga lines form, the goat sacrifice (that took place on the property earlier in the day) was well received, and one by one, the kids are carried off to bed, happy, fully and entirely spent.  Except for Eve.  She didn’t attend the feast. 

Eve qualifies as an abuse case.  Nobody can accurately determine her age.  Darryl, a social worker, pegs it at around 11.  Eve thinks she was born in 2002.  Recently married off, Eve’s screams during sex with her husband prompted him to give her back to her family.  This, in turn, caused great shame.  Her parents beat her to within an inch of her life on her return prompting her aunt to take her in.  But when a Kites volunteer gave Eve’s aunt food stamps to help care for her, her family took her back to profit.  More beatings.  Plus regular rapes by her neighbor.  Add to that, Eve has epilepsy, which further stigmatizes her.  On the day we left for Kilimanjaro, Eve was again wandering the streets in her school uniform.

Today, Eve showed up at Kites.  Beaten.  Broken.  Again.  They have a custody hearing tomorrow morning.  God, I hope they win. 

*Name has been changed.

A Njabini Sunrise

We’re here!  Africa.  Well, Kenya to start. 

At first glance, it reminds me of India: abject poverty, haphazardly placed bundled garbage, potholes, unrecycled plastic, roaming goats, cows, and donkeys, shoeless children.  All that’s missing are the monkeys…  Here, the skin of the people is about four shades darker, and there is – at least from what I’ve seen – less of a sense of humor.  India’s people, no matter their plight, are always smiling.  In Kenya, it’s tough to crack that initial grin.  There’s a level of quiet, of reserve, of indifference, that almost makes you feel like you’re invisible, as Darryl so aptly put it.  She’s right.  Nobody sees me yet.  Even when I smile.

Out of the city, similar to most third world highways, chaos rules.  Diesel fumes run noxious; horn honking creates cacophonous melody.  Buses, mass transport, and motorcycles are piled high and full.  So many people moving from place to place.  Robert, our driver who moonlights as a Kilimanjaro guide, is a jovial guy who tells us about his country.  The Westlands of Nairobi is an enclave of the wealthy; con men run deep – especially ones in good suits; English is Kenya’s predominant language; 95% of people summit Kilimanjaro on 6-night hikes (whew…).  He’s lovely and informative, and likes us off the bat.  He gives us hope that his is the spirit of the people we’ve come to find.  Robert smiles back.  Every time. 

As city bleeds into country, we climb to Njabini’s elevation of 8,500 feet.  Located in the Great Rift Valley, Njabini is where Flying Kites’ Leadership Academy is located and we can’t wait to arrive.  Darryl, Flying Kites and I are long, and fast friends.  I’ve been waiting to enter their world in the same gracious, welcome way they entered (and changed) mine.  We will volunteer our time at their children’s home; we will climb Kilimanjaro for their cause.  En route, we pass gorgeous, tall pine forests and bushy, flat-topped acacia trees; perched, menacing vultures keep one eye open to dinner possibilities in villages of one story-dilapidated accommodations that line the roads.  Everyone is on the streets – walking, chatting, working – children are all dressed in school uniforms.  Njabini is different than Nairobi; I’ve started to see the color of this land.  

We’re staying at the Gimwa Hotel, a spare guesthouse in Njabini’s small village.  Our bathrooms (a luxury to begin with) look like I would imagine a Riker’s island set-up might look.  The insects are enormous, my dinner was chopped meat and cabbage, and the air smells like burning wood.  No matter, though.  I’m in Africa.  “Jambo” is the word for hello in Kenya, and in Njabini, I plan to use it loosely and with genuine feeling.  Too bad that Mary and Ruth, the girls who man the Gimwa café, don’t care to respond to our Jambos.

I want to be Oprah; I want to be Madonna.  I want schoolchildren of all ages to celebrate me in robe and song.  I want to be crushed by the love of the African people.  Isn’t that how it’s supposed to happen?  I think that’s how everyone pictures Africa, but there’s a slower arc to the “mazungu” (white person) embrace.  

On Day Two, I watched my first African sunrise.  Before I left New York someone told me to cherish every sunrise.  And at 5 AM, the roosters, donkeys, and rabid dogs reminded me that my first opportunity beckoned.  The remnants of jetlag hadn’t quite left my sleepy frame, but awake and half-alert, I bundled up and crept outside for a peek.  A murky blue start to my first Kenyan morning, and though the vision wasn’t as grand as I had expected, the gesture wasn’t lost on me.  In that moment, thinking about where I was, and what I was about to experience, unbeknownst to me, I smiled.  And the equally sleepy, bundled Njabini woman coming out of her hut behind the Gimwa looked up and met my eye.  

Then, she smiled back.

Bring On Africa!

I’ve done this already.  Multiple times.  And yet, the mixed feelings inevitably come.  Kenya, Tanzania, and Mount Kilimanjaro loom large on my horizon, but I’m torn on leaving a very settled New York existence for the pleasures and perils of a travel-break. 

Most of you know my story: a rising publicist within the matrix of the HarperCollins Publishers machine, I left my job in 2005.  No disillusionment with cranky authors, no falling out with top brass, no desire to continue my upward climb.  I just…quit.  Looking back, the urgency and growth that I had long associated with my position had fallen off.  I owned my New York City apartment; I dabbled with the same boy for half a decade.  Change cramped my style, but it was time.  On the cusp of 31, unattached, and unchallenged, I decided to delve into a new experiment: traveling the world.  Solo.

The lack of corporate identity faded to black, replaced by worries about proper hiking boots and rain ponchos, durable yet lightweight wheelie luggage and international visas.  A holy immunization hell awaited me.  Ecuador would be the first stop on what came to be a two-plus year adventure, but in that solitary moment of booking a ticket to Quito, I wondered what I would wear on the plane.  These became my preoccupations.  Night sweats ensued.  The big question loomed: was I prepared?

A month on the road showed me that preparation only goes so far, and you’re never completely ready for life’s many challenges.  I grew to love greeting the dawn each day—often in a new city—with a wealth of possibility at my fingertips.  Shockingly, I embraced living out of a suitcase.  The contents of that well-chosen wheelie bag became the only constant; everything else around me fluctuated like the wind. Spontaneity became my new best friend.  Unpredictability, my new boyfriend.  Oh, how I thrived.

More than two years have passed since I returned to New York as headquarters of my new life.  In that time, I’ve struggled with re-entry.  Redefining the location of your old life in relation to your new one takes work and, at the time, I wasn’t ready to go back to work.  I wallowed.  I did; probably way too much and for way too long, but it takes a while to process two years, five continents, and thirty-something countries in a studio apartment that doesn’t have the best natural light. 

Eventually, though, the sun came out.  Hiding behind bedcovers until 2 PM started to feel silly, and I slowly began to rebuild.  A manuscript here, a freelance travel article there; working with various global charities reinvigorated my soul and drove my passion.  Voila!  New York regained a bit of its rose-colored glow.

This winter, when the opportunity to spend the summer in Africa presented itself, it seemed a no-brainer.  For charity, no less: where do I sign?  But now, five days out, coming full circle in career and confidence, I’m mixed on leaving.  Again.  Thankfully, I have hindsight on my side, and my trip to East Africa ties into my budding role as a travel writer and a responsible tourist.  I always think I’m immune to anxiety on the eve of extended holiday, and my nerves take me by complete surprise when they surface.  Plus, with each new adventure, they change their spots.  Today, they take the form of: Will I be able to summit Kilimanjaro?  My first joint trip in years, will my travel partners and I get along?  Will I have enough time to cover my assignments and bask in the continent I’ve dreamed of exploring?  And, of course, do I have the right hiking boots? 

Luckily, I know the answers will sort themselves out.  They always do.  That’s the beauty of taking a break from real life for a solid dose of a travel life. 

Bring on Africa!

*This blog was adapted from a piece I wrote for a website called Briefcase to Backpack (www.briefcasetobackpack.com).  Check them out!

Ready, Set...Byline!

I hadn’t done the solo travel thing since last year’s trip to Mexico when I left my very worried mother (“Honey, they have DRUG WARS here.”) in a cab to the airport as I hopped a bus from Puerto Vallarta to Guadalajara in search of more adventure.  While I did manage to log a few worthy stories – becoming a stand-in madam to the gay proprietors of my Guadalajara B&B, crashing two Mexico City weddings in one day only to enrage both suitors by night’s end, and sampling recipes during the Annual Mole Poblano Festival in Puebla to the point of street vomiting – I fell in love with Mexico.  This time, however, the Mexico love wasn’t in an Acapulco/Cancun tripping the light fantastic on ecstasy kind of way, more a cultural appreciation of the vast beauty of a country kind of way.  At the end of that journey, I couldn’t wait for my next jaunt.  My mom was just happy I “made it out alive.”

Enter 2010.

The beginning of this year has been marked with some incredible opportunities that sidelined me from going south of the border.  But when a free timeshare unit on the Riviera Maya came my way, I couldn’t say no.  The Easter Week dates weren’t ideal; I feared wet t-shirt contests and screaming schoolchildren on holiday.  The flights were outrageous; I had to use over 70,000 miles to get there.  But I had to go.  The doldrums of winter were killing me.

Taking a shot, I pitched the travel editor at Newsday on a piece about Mexico’s Riviera Maya.  Newsday is the newspaper of my childhood, having an article published within its pages rang nostalgic.  I’m a loser like that; I still cry from 80’s love songs pegged to my first real boyfriend (Debbie Gibson’s ‘In Your Eyes,’ 9^th Grade).  A couple of days later, I got a return message from Newsday.  Yes, let’s do it!  Holy shit, I had a GIG!  A real, live, comes-with-a-contract GIG!

Packing my bags felt the same as the solo trips of my past, only this time I had an agenda.  I had to cover the Riviera Maya on three budgets for Newsday readers.  I don’t know why they entrusted me with this task; I can’t even balance my checkbook, let alone stay on holiday budget.  It would be a learning experience, I told myself.  Maybe something fiscally positive would result. 

On the plane, I sat next to Chatty Cathy, a pocket-rocket of a blonde who worked in the private school world of Manhattan.  Did I already have a Riviera Maya friend?  Yes…until she started to gab to the girl in the seat between us, then the middle-aged couple from Arizona in the hotel transport vehicle, and finally, the single father we met in the lobby of the hotel: a jilted lover was the reason she fled to Mexico.  When she got to the part about hiring a P.I. to tail him, my red-flag alarm went five-bells.  When she told us she had only been dating him for three months, I ran in the other direction.  Chatty Cathy was also Crazy. 

Check-in went smoothly, my room was ready, Chatty Crazy Cathy wasn’t on my side of the property.  Check.  Check.  Double-check.  But that’s when my luck seemed to run out. 

Traveling around the world and traveling the world on assignment are two very different things.  While I love being able to say, “I’m on assignment,” the reality of being on assignment is not nearly as cool.  Once upon a time, I was an organized, planned, scheduled person.  There wasn’t a facet of my life that wasn’t filed into my Filofax (I know there are heads nodding in amused at-home agreement on this).  I don’t know when that gene mutated, but I can no longer tap it, and it’s killing my journalistic mojo. 

In Mexico, I never had a pen when I needed one.  I forgot to bring a notebook so Purchase #1 became an $11 ruled notebook bound in suede with a cover sketch of Tulum -- I might as well have been wearing a fanny pack.  I forgot to upgrade my iPhone to World Access and alert American Express that I was even going to Mexico creating a bit of stolen identity brouhaha.  I neglected to make all of my appointments in advance, fitting in hotel visits, multiple price-point restaurant samplings, scuba trips, and encounters at the ruins.  I scrambled on arrival, but I got a lot of responses along the lines of “I’m sorry, it’s Easter.”  Even the best-laid plans fell through: my cave diving was rescheduled, my rental car never showed, and there I was hustling to get it all covered for press.  I went to sleep those first few nights wishing for a day of wrinkly overexposure to the sun, two-for-one piña coladas, and my book on a lounge chair.  I'd even relish the time to partake in group water aerobics.  I felt desperate and the piece seemed a pipedream.

Believe it or not, after a bit of a plan-ahead learning curve, I got to everything. Riviera Maya morphed from a daunting vacation disaster into an accessible Mexican oasis with something for everyone: boutique hotels and sprawling resorts, high-end Mayan cuisine and delicious street-cart tacos, scuba and sailing adventures set against the backdrop of the ruins of Tulum and Coba.  I even got to relax a little bit by week's end.  But more importantly, I can officially call myself a writer.  I logged my piece with my editor last week.  While I have other unscheduled pieces waiting for run dates, it’s fitting that my first will run in Newsday.

At present, it’s slated for publication on May 16^th.  Cover Story! 

By Marie Elena Martinez.  (Cue the tears.)

Swimming with Sharks

Flying into Tahiti for my transfer to Bora Bora couldn’t have been a more anticipated arrival. The South Pacific was full of gems, but Bora Bora was the crown jewel and I absolutely couldn’t wait to get there. Cook Islands bad luck leftover, my flight arrived into Tahiti at 12:05 AM and my charter to Bora Bora didn’t leave until 6:40 AM. So in the open-air facility, lacking nooks or benches to curl up on, no Internet facilities, and at that hour, people, I remained wide-eyed for six hours in dire wait playing solitaire on the airport floor. A most luxurious entry into the Society Islands... When I finally got to take my place on the left side of the plane, the better vantage point for Taha’a, Huahine, and Moorea flyovers, I couldn’t even keep my eyes open to appreciate the view. But as we started our descent into Bora Bora, I was jarred into semi-consciousness and amazed at the sight below. I had assumed French Polynesia would be Maldive-esque—glorified sand bars boasting high-end accommodations—but the geography of Bora Bora, quite literally, astounded me. Mountains reached up toward the skies, an electric blue border surrounded, the magic of Bora Bora began before we even landed.

It was easy to forget that French Polynesia was, indeed, French. It took a bit of getting used to; there was no black clothing in Bora Bora, there were no baguette carts, no cafes to linger in over long, literature themed lunches; it was all floral button down shirts, colorful ruffle dresses, flip-flops, and leis. Stray dogs roamed the streets, barking and copulating at will, rather than yapping on leather leashes pulled by fabulous designer clad owners. Hawaii with a French accent. It was such a welcome change after Aussie and Kiwi twanged, Fiji and Cook Island inflected English, but at the same time, slightly off. I took a spot on the beach as soon as I arrived at my hotel. The view couldn’t have been better, white sandy beaches, turquoise decorated by over-water huts on the horizon, palm trees and lush tropical plants at the shoreline, sailboats, catamarans, dinghys whizzing to and fro at sea. Immediately, I booked into my dives. Each morning, I’d do two dives. I’d have afternoons to relax. Oui, oui….

My life in Bora Bora was about diving, eating, reading and trying desperately not to think about going home. At 7 AM each morning I boarded my diveboat with Xavier, my hot, French, chain-smoking Speedo-clad divemaster who called me Ma-ree. After assembling my tank and weights, I’d settle in for the stops at each successively nicer hotel than mine—the Intercontinental, Le Meridien, St. Regis—to pick up the other divers. The water was still, our boat making the first disruption of the perfect mountain reflections. Then, we’d dive.

Now, I’ve done dives in a lot of fantastic places. My log book reads like a who’s who of exotic locales, but THESE dives rocked my world. They were one after the other better than the one before. Why? Talk about swimming with sharks. The Pacific is rife with sharks of all varieties—nurse, tiger, hammerhead, white reef-tipped, black reef-tipped, lemon, grey, barracuda—and I’ve seen them all. Just NEVER like THIS. They were all present at once, circling in peaceful lurk, fins slicing the water around the boat. In that surreal Jaws moment, we’d jump in the water (!), fins circling around us. My heart leapt each time. Awesome. As we let the air out of our BCDs (vests) and descended down 20, 30, 40, 50 feet, we sank through schools of them. They just hung out with us, next to us, on top of us, underneath us. 20, 30, 40, 50 of them. If the opportunity presented that we were far enough out of their way, the deck hands threw over some chum and we’d watch them go to town. If not, we’d just peacefully co-exist for the 40-50 minutes we had underwater, visiting their world. I never wanted to surface when my air signaled ascension. I just wanted more bottom time. It was sublime.

The island shut down at around 11 PM, which was fine with me as I had early dives. Being rainy season, taxi service was nil, restaurants transported you to and from in shuttles or boats. There was no nightlife. I was the only person in one restaurant, a sandy shack with coconut shell decoration called Bloody Mary’s that was the prototype for all fresh fish joints in the South Pacific. It came highly recommended; it was just the wrong season; you had to reserve “months ahead in summer.” With natural beauty like this, I couldn’t imagine any season could disappoint but Bora Bora most definitely had an off-season, and regardless of the good weather I was getting, for the expense, most stayed away until the sun was guaranteed to shine. For me, as it was, it was perfection.

I was devastated to leave Bora Bora on my final day, waving madly to Xavier as the diveboat pulled away without me. But, I still had Moorea. Closer to Tahiti, Moorea was more built up—if only by a fraction—than Bora Bora. There were actual shopping enclaves on Moorea, selling, of course, Tahitian black pearls. After taking a crash course in quality (A-D), luster (+/-), size (7mm and up), and shape (R-round, SR-semi-round, O-oval), I settled on a pair for my mom and a pair for me. She would be so relieved; she could ditch her fakes. I was so excited; I'd acquired life jewels. Moorea was more mountainous than Bora Bora, the lagoon surrounding smaller, but I was not at all complaining. Every breath I took in that fabled land was a deep breath, a treasured breath, a forever with me breath.

When I arrived back at the Tahiti airport, in the rain, to another wait -- this time 14 hours -- I opted out of a drenched, solitary second stay in the airport. Seeing a direct flight to JFK boarding, I ditched my return ticket through LAX on Air New Zealand and purchased the last-minute, direct one-way on Tahiti Nui. With minutes to spare, I passed through customs, threw my North Face into the overhead, and called it trip.

Maybe NYC Marie isn’t so far gone, after all…

~M

The Hex of the International Dateline

Time has given me perspective; distance altered my outlook. Now, I’d go back in a heartbeat. However, when I was in the Cook Islands, it felt far from easy…

The Cook Islands stint began as my very own Groundhog’s Day, 3/9 repeated, crossing the international dateline from Auckland to Rarotonga. A Kiwi 3/9, a Cook 3/9. By crossing the dateline, I realized I was now closer to American time zones than I was to Australian ones. Sadly, I was en route home. The islands of the South Pacific being extraordinarily expensive go-to destinations to hop around, I had queried the “premier” hotel on each Cook (Rarotonga and Aitutaki) – owned by the same parent company – about the possibility of a discounted rate. I fudged the details, writer, book, blah blah blah, and seeing that the same schtick had worked to magnificent result in other cities, what could it hurt if it worked in the setting of settings? It worked! I was getting a 60% off deal at both locations, and an over-water suite on Aitutaki. I couldn’t wait.

But shuttled under the cover of darkness to the Rarotonga resort, at which I would only stay one night, I foresaw problems on the horizon. I just felt that the Cooks were going to be a let down. The hotel itself was more island kitsch than island fabulous. In my head, I had prepped for island fabulous. It was pouring when I woke the next morning to a soggy dining room breakfast that felt more mess hall with the suspended ceiling canoe. Eggs were extra, so were pancakes. Pooh! Luckily, I was headed to Aitutaki for five days. Hopefully, the rain would abate. When the sole passengers on my charter were the Rarotonga rugby team, my spirits lifted. But, touching down onto a soaked, muddy airstrip, I didn’t think I would get to play cheerleader to the hot, Pacific islanders of my in-flight reality.

From overhead, Aitutaki was a sight to behold; a densely tropical island with a border of the most turquoise blue water I’d ever seen. Situated in a lagoon, Aitutaki looked like the island of my imagination. That was, until I arrived at the hotel. A rickety wooden boat transported guests from Aitutaki proper to my hotel, the Aitutaki Lagoon Resort, which I loved. It felt exclusive, like I was being allowed entry to a secret world. But expectations weren’t met once I reached the other side. I was in sleepaway camp, in the 1970’s. Peeling, red, painted bunks, open volleyball netted sand patches, a rec room, a dining room, an activities desk, and a decrepit pool that suffers from both algae and inattention. I was supposed to have an overwater bungalow, but there were none available. Pouring still, I was shown to my room. A decorating throwback to an earlier time. Lazy, nothing to do, I fell asleep and prayed for a better 3/10.

It was still pouring the next morning. I was hyper-aware of this because I was awakened in alarm over and over again as coconuts fell on the roof of my bungalow. After lunch, I’d watched the same movies on repeat on the three channels I had access to. I’d read a whole book and I was out of options. When the rain let up a little, I headed back over in the rickety boat and rented a scooter. Time to explore. And there, it started to change. On my little scooter, I was back to travel Marie. The main land of Aitutaki was a sparsely populated place with only a few real establishments along the main roads. Tons of churches abounded with bells being run by hand, a few soda shops, and hundreds of little shacks in varying shades of bright colors set against the dewy mountain green or ocean blue backdrops. They all were dilapidated but charming, laundry lines full of moist clothes draping out front, pairs of shoes left next to doors. I was having the time of my life, American biker chic, skirt bunched in between my legs, hair flying, around Aitutaki, Cook Islands. The islanders loved that I was American. This gave them a reference point: Survivor. That was all they wanted to talk about. When the show filmed, ½ of the island was employed by Mark Burnett’s company. Since, the Aitutaki residents had seemed to have fallen on harder times. Only, yep, rain curtailed my exploration… Riding back to the Lagoon Resort in the pelting droplets wasn’t fun, but I decided to rent the bike for the remainder of my stay. It seemed to be my only salvation.

The night brought a traditional Polynesian dance show of grass skirts and lively colored costumes. Passed down from generation to generation, the dancers told stories through their movements. My favorite was the little chubby girl who had no idea of her weight. In Polynesia, it seemed girth was a sign of power and importance. Personally, seeing the lifestyle, I think girth came from laziness, but hey ~ who was I to argue with Polynesian lore. There, I met Uwe, my Viennese savior. Also staying at the Lagoon Resort, we shared four (yes, four!) bottles of wine, closed down the restaurant, and became Aitutaki friends for life. When I woke the next morning to sun, I couldn’t have been happier, minus the hangover. But, the bike beckoned and before I had become sufficiently bronzed, I was back motoring through the bush, waving to stoop-standing locals, and found a dive shop at which to book a scuba day. Had I known that since there are no actual wharfs on Aitutaki to dock boats, that I would have to suffer an hour-long drive at 5 mph with the dive boat attached to a tractor to get both the boat and the dive gear to the water, I might’ve rethought my plans. Yes, things were THAT backwards in the Cook Islands…

Since it rained most of the time, I complained a lot. I know I did. The staff didn’t answer my calls to the front desk quickly enough, room service took hours, their Internet was down, my A/C didn’t work. The topper of all these things was getting stuck alone in the rain on my broken down scooter on a back road. It took about 2 hours for someone to discover me, and old man and his wife. She waited with my bike while we rode back to the shop for assistance. Thank god for them. I think I’d still be there. Finally, as if they had enough, the hotel upgraded me to an over-water bungalow my last night there and I admit it was worth the trouble just to stay one night in that luxury. It’s amazing to be able to dive off your porch into the clearest of water at any given hour. Thinking on it in my new, fancier digs, I couldn’t help but feel that Aitutaki had so much potential. Not that I craved big industry or tourism in any way, just a better level of service and accommodation. The people on the island were super-friendly from afar, but in on interaction, they were distracted and short, as if an imaginary gun was being poked into their back while inside their heads they were saying “fuck you.”

When I got to Rarotonga, it was a lot more of the same. Natural beauty of place with lots of rain and forced interactions amid fake smiles. The people weren’t like that in Fiji. Maybe it was me. Something like the Aitutaki branch phoned the Rarotonga branch and told them to watch out for the bitchy girl and her Viennese counterpart. Maybe I was just getting antsy on going home soon. Who knows? I got my karmic payback, though. After closing down yet another restaurant, Uwe jumped on the back of my bike for a drop-off. Leaving his hotel, my tires fishtailed out, and I was left on the pavement of the empty, dark road with a flat tire. Me and the bikes, right? Only this time, my right toe was throbbing. I couldn’t put my foot down. AT ALL. I pushed a very battered bike back to Uwe’s hotel and prayed my toe wasn’t broken. The next day, I went to the one medical clinic in town -- on my bike -- my hotel couldn’t provide transportation. See what I mean? The clinic, one room behind a drug store that said “clinic” in aqua letters on computer paper, was small and clean. The doctor, “Please call me Herman,” sported the worst toupee I’d ever seen and wrote down my entry in a marble notebook. My entry was simply “Marie” followed by my passport number and “toe.” It might be broken. It might not, said Herman. He taped it up and told me not to put pressure on it.

Uwe met me at my hotel. With a flight out that evening, dinner was supposed to be quick. A gorgeous sunset later, the meal turned into a long, drawn out fight with the staff of first the restaurant, then the hotel. I was vocally refusing payment, when they threatened taking me to the airport in time for my flight. Customs would be called, “this is a small island,” they warned me. Uwe and I looked back and forth at each other. Finally, I shut up. But not before I suspected that they planted drugs in my baggage. I convinced myself that I would be stopped at the airport and deported because of my bad behavior. Terrified, I text messaged my sister to check in on me in 12 hours. If I didn’t respond, she was to call the US Embassy. I gave her my flight number to Tahiti. Hugs to Uwe, I passed through customs without a hitch, called my sister, and let the Cook Islands drift back out into Pacific Ocean obscurity.

Damn that International Dateline. Man, what a week…

~M

Bula, Marie! You’re on Fiji-Time Now…

Rocky shorelines, crystal blue water, eco-friendly resorts, stunning coral reefs, swaying palm trees and the warmest, loveliest people I’ve ever met. That’s a tip-of-the-iceberg portrait of the northern reaches of Fiji’s islands, which include Vanua Levu and Taveuni. I was taken off-guard when I arrived in Fiji; an island is an island, right? Wrong. I thought that before I went to Bali and was floored by how much of an impression it left on me. The same with Fiji. Before arriving, the South Pacific conjured the white sandy beaches of dream worlds, images crafted by Michener and Stevenson, tabloid portrayals of Marlon Brando’s French Polynesia and honeymoon couples lazing away days in overwater bungalows. Yet as I realized in Fiji, there’s oh-so-much more. Fiji is indelibly inked into my travel memories as the new favorite (as I’m sure over the last couple of years, I’ve said that more than once). A place where time doesn’t matter and loving thy neighbor comes naturally, Fiji was a country that I didn’t want to ever leave.

I woke at 3:30 AM in Auckland to catch the first airport shuttle of the day. Tired and cranky, I arrived to the international terminal at 4:30 for my 7 AM flight to Nadi (pronounced Nandi by Fijians) only to be told that I had mistaken the time. Huh? It was 7 PM. A joke? I don’t make organizational mistakes. Must be a joke. Yeah, not so much. All prepared to jump on a plane, fall back to sleep and arrive in the tropics, my whole day required an immediate re-plan. First, frantic calls to the SF and North Carolina based travel agents who e-booked this part of my trip. Cancel my Fiji inter-island flight, push to the next day; aware the north resort that I’d be a day late, arrange for a substitute Nadi hotel, arrange transfers. From 4:30 – 6:00 AM, I payphone re-planned. Then called my sister to bitch about it. Sometimes, a girl just needs a good bitching.

Unable to muster the effort required to play tourist in Auckland (which entailed changing out of “plane clothes,” packing a day bag, making an Auckland agenda, taxi-ing back into the city and hanging around for the sake of hanging around), I opted to take a couch day, only the yummy sofa would be an itchy airport plaid, the cable television a communal one tuned to CNN, and the food selection an assortment of fast food outfits like McDonalds (hashbrowns for breakfast), Burger King (a side salad for lunch) and Gloria Jean’s Coffee (a Starbucks knock-off here in NZed where I got about 6 lattes to keep awake). Getting online, I worked in my “office” at the food court, downloading pix, IMing with most of you, reading the papers and gossip mags that chronicled Britney’s psychoses (all the rags here are calling One, where she changed outfits with a stripper, a “seedy lower Manhattan hard-core strip joint” or a “Manhattan bordello”…kinda funny), and genuinely enjoying an otherwise frustrating day.

When I arrived in Fiji, finally, I was exhausted. Sleeping off the day’s airport in lackluster Nadi, I woke early, this time for my transfer to Savusavu, a city on the north island of Vanua Levu. Entering the airport, I knew that the bad luck had finally ceased. “Marie Elena! Ms. Martinez! Welcome home, Love!” smiled the faces at the Air Pacific counter. “Oh, girl. You’ve had a hard day! Bula, Marie! Bula! You’re on Fiji-Time now.” I almost wasn’t sure if they were talking to me. But, they were. My resort, Jean-Michel Cousteau (Jacques’s son), had sent someone to greet me, escort me through the check-in process and present me a cibi seed (plant indigenous to Fiji) necklace and lots of hugs and kisses. Oh, how I love being fawned over… I dug my handler’s flowy floral dress and her 70’s afro. Looking around, I concluded that the 70’s afro was “the” Fijian lady’s ‘do. Everyone sported it. The picked at it when they thought nobody was looking. I freakin’ loved it.

After a 45-minute puddle-jumper, I FINALLY arrived to Savusavu at 9 AM. There a driver that would shuttle me to Cousteau met me. Known for it’s diving outfit, the Cousteau resort was the recommendation of Jen-Cory, who described it as a slice of heaven. Given the recent coup in Fiji, which isn’t felt within the country but is taking a toll on tourism, prices at otherwise unaffordable places opened up to me. Coupled with rainy season, Fiji’s outer islands were quiet. So, I bargained myself down a beachfront bure (bungalow) with a couple of free dives, free massages and all meals (most of the outer islands serve all meals AT the resort since the towns are sparsely populated and lack dining establishments since the Fijian people cannot afford to eat at them). The humidity clinging to my skin, I stared out the window as we drove through the run-down villages of Vanua Levu, past the crumbling main drag in Savusavu town, and onto a dirt road that deposited in front of a group of guitar-carrying men that I would come to know as the Bula Boys (Bula is the Fijian greeting), serenading me as I stepped from the vehicle.

From that moment on, I was in heaven on Fiji Time (which means there is no awareness of time) at Cousteau. Cousteau isn’t divine because of all it is, its charm lies in its simplicity. It’s eco-conscious, so there’s no air-conditioning (and it’s humid and hot, make no mistake), the beaches (like most of the north beaches) aren’t sandy and inviting, the pool was gorgeous but small, and the daily activities board more campy than classy. BUT, Cousteau is the most special place I have ever stayed. My bungalow was spectacular and with only ceiling fans and breeze-allowing screens, the lapping surf put me to sleep every night. The products (all coconut based) were sinfully delicious. After the foot massage at check-in with the coconut scrub, the showers with pineapple shampoos, and the massages with starfruit oils, I added about 4 lbs of lotions and potions to my already oversized baggage. The meals were immaculately prepared and everyday a new menu appeared listing four entrees (starters), mains, and desserts to choose from. The one “treat” in the gift shop was these huge gummie snakes that I’ve become hooked on in these parts. For me, the perfect indulgence. ($30 of my final bill was spent on snakes. Problems…). Here, at Cousteau, the rain didn’t even bother me (it rained at some point each day).

But more than the food, the accommodations, the activities, the snakes, it was about the people. The staff was made up of the most inclusive and attentive people I’ve had the pleasure of interacting with. Everyone, from the gardeners to the wait staff to the diving team, knew my name. Bula, Marie! Bula, Bula! They would call out to me from across the grounds as I made my way past. How was your dive, Marie? How was lunch, Marie? To which I was always amazed and flattered. I felt awful for not being equally adept at memorizing all of their names. They deserved for me to remember as each staffer was encouraged to assert their individuality in dealing with the guests. I got to know them; I felt that I was not only receiving outstanding service, I was interacting with a Fijian friend, learning from them and their life, as they learned from me. While that seems like it can be a potentially annoying situation, it wasn’t overdone. It was executed flawlessly. Everyone else I spoke to at the hotel (there’s only 30 bures, so you get to know your fellow guests) agreed. There was just something special about Cousteau’s Fiji, Savusavu’s Fiji, Northern Fiji.

The diving was amazing, Namena’s reefs, specifically. Working on becoming a World Heritage declared site, Namena was way better than expected. The corals are eye-candy, the fish plentiful. My dives were of the type that I imagine people envision when I say “I scuba dive.” I wound up enjoying the dives SO much that I went on to complete training for my advanced open water certification, actually doing a night dive with a flashlight (very Jaws, opening scene, terrifying at first), an underwater wildlife awareness dive (I can actually identify the fish I see…), a drift dive (where you let the current take you through smaller passages not accessible without the current), and a navigational dive (let’s just say that Geoff, my divemaster, was thankfully lenient on that assessment, as I hope NEVER to need to rely on myself or my compass to navigate out of underwater trouble). Because of the comfort with the dive team, I went with them to experience a bit of Fijian life, going into their villages, to church on Sunday, and attending the Suva (Vitu Levu island) vs. Savusavu rugby semi-final match, a game where $5 entry gained me access to a makeshift field, ropes creating outer boundaries, attended only by locals holding umbrellas over themselves to shield the hot sun’s rays from their tanned bodies. I was intimidated at first, sticking close to Mary, my Fiji-born hostess. Being the only outsider, you never know if eye contact will bear warmth or hostility but EVERY person I made contact with smiled at me from their soul, their eyes sparkling. Even as I passed in a taxi through the streets later in my stay, every Fijian would meet my glance and beam. It was amazing, the confidence in themselves and their culture, their lives. I remember being struck by this in SE Asia, the happiness amongst poverty. Again, in Fiji, this was amazing to see.

On my last day, I allowed myself to indulge in the sweet pancake of the day, which ended my stay at Cousteau on a yummy sugar high. While the Bula Boys sang me off, I waved furiously to the staff that had accumulated outside the transfer van. I was immensely sad to be leaving. I enjoyed myself so thoroughly that I actually contemplated changing around more flights/hotels to spend more time with in Savusavu. But onward, upward, that’s the nature of my trip. I had other places to see and…one more night in Fiji. Off Nadi, on Denarau Island. A built up island that is home to the Westin, Sheraton and Sofitel, Denarau was a total disappointment. I might as well have been in Florida, not Fiji. Of course, being a chain, the Westin screwed up my reservation and wasn’t at all accommodating about rectifying it. While visually stunning, the Westin just reeked of commercialism, of a fake Fiji, of a recreated Fiji. After spending time in Savusavu, this just wouldn’t do. Even the Bulas were lackluster. So, I retired to my air-conditioned room and wrote this blog, preserving my memory of a true, amazing Fiji. A Fiji to which I cannot wait to return.

Next up: The Cook Islands after a quick 2-nighter in Auckland.
More soon.
~M