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Everyone
was assembled at Banaba House in Suva; it was dark
by the time the truck arrived to take us to the
Spirit Of Free Enterprise (SOFE). The ominously
named craft would take us to Destination Rabi.
Everyone pitched in
with shifting masses upon masses of luggage. What
were all these people taking? Everyone gathered
around and boarded the truck, only to discover from
our driver that an obscure local by-law excluded
this. Yes, only a grand total of four people were
allowed on the back of the truck. It was a farce as
everyone piled out again. They had to walk or take a
taxi. Now only burdened with a collection of luggage
Harrods would have been proud of, the truck headed
towards the wharf.
Down at the wharf,
another French Farce was rapidly ensuing with the
loading of the ship. Fijian drivers in trucks so
overloaded the tyres were flat, reversed by feel
only, stopping only when their vehicle crashed into
the truck behind. In their infinite wisdom, the
ships crew didn't allow the passengers on until the
very last minute, blocking the gangway used by the
trucks; they had nowhere else to go. The Motley Crew
added to this spectacle by engaging in a team photo
fest of almost Japanese proportions.
Clive Smith kept
his head while others were losing theirs. He sat
alone reading ‘Fiji Times' on a set of picnic
chairs, no doubt destined for some far flung village
somewhere. For some bizarre reason, it rather
reminded me of Princess Diana at the Taj Mahal,
albeit in drag. The last of the British Raj perhaps?
The crew insisted
on parking an implausibly large lorry in an
impossibly small space, just where we were stood.
Passengers scattered everywhere just like Keystone
Cops as the lorry jerked violently in their
direction.
Once aboard, yet
more farce as everyone followed each other around
the ship like a suicide squad of lemmings. We were
looking for a space large enough to accommodate the
whole group. There wasn't one. I found a berth at
the bow (front) of the ship on top of a lifeboat,
where a stiff trade wind was supplied free of
charge.
Down below in the
steerage, Chinese video movies blared at 115
decibels from two television screens. It was hot,
sweaty and airless there.
Meanwhile, at the
Stern, Stacey had arranged a cultural soiree. It was
pleasing to see that somewhere in a melee of chaos,
culture and civilisation had resumed. Yes, a wine
and cheese party in the South Pacific. The Fiji
Bitter flowed and dial-a-pizza arrived, supplied
courtesy of Laisa and friends.
Stacey held court
about the forthcoming trip to Rabi and Banaba. To be
honest, what with the noise of the boat, I caught
little and remembered less, of the conversation.
Consumption of considerable quantities of red and
white wine and Fiji Bitter had nothing to do with
it. Later I was to fall asleep in a stupor, no doubt
comforted by the fact that I was sleeping on a
lifeboat. The trade winds roared on ferociously,
cooling the night air somewhat.
To be continued...
DESTINATION
RABI - PART 2
"Motley
Crew Star in 'Organised Chaos'"
by Garry
Hawkins, U.K.
The wind had abated by 6am, the time I rose from my
berth on top of a lifeboat. With bleary eyes I
looked up and noted that we'd arrived at Koro, a
small island within the Fiji group. It was just too
early, so I returned to the land of slumber.
The Spirit Of Free
Enterprise (SOFE) didn't stay for long, and was soon
heading for Savusavu, the main town of Vanua Levu
(Great Land). Several hours elapsed before the SOFE
reached its outer reef, where heavy surf pounded the
white coral. We followed a coastline fringed by
deserted islands, with seemingly endless sandy
beaches illuminated by the burning sun.
We cruised into the
beautiful natural harbour that was Savusavu, and
docked adjacent to the marine barge Pacific Mariner.
Our boat was anchored by two ropes tied to puny
looking palm trees onshore. As soon as docking was
complete, a mass of passengers surged towards the
exit, desperate to leave the ship. The crew in their
infinite wisdom decided that this would be an
opportune moment to check everyone’s ticket, for
the second time of asking.
It was as hot as
hell in the sweltering midday heat, as the Motley
Crew split into two groups. One sat themselves on
planks on the left of the jetty, where there was
absolutely no protection from the raging sun. The
others, (those with more sense) sat beneath a huge
tree, in the cool provided by its shade.
We waited for our
charter bus to arrive which would take us from
Savusavu to Koroko wharf, some 110km to the East of
us. The bus left a trail of billowing dust behind
it, as it arrived to mocking cheers. As if it had
come straight from a classic bus auction, the lime
green windowless Leyland was indeed an antique,
circa 1950. Our Indian driver had constructed a
Hindu shrine at the front of his bus. Ominously, it
was littered with Indian and Fijian road safety
stickers. There was no indication of the number of
ravines it had recently plunged into.
Chaos commenced as
everyone attempted to get their luggage aboard.
Suitcases, backpacks, rucksacks, holdalls,
coveralls, bedrolls, bog rolls, bedding, matting,
sacks of rice and sugar were thrown through windows,
squeezed through doors and stuffed into baggage
compartments. The bus ride from hell merely required
live chickens, a pair of goats and a sacred cow for
complete authenticity.
Before the bus
could depart, people flew hither and thither as more
team photos were taken. Was there a large advert for
Fujifilm emblazoned on the side of the bus? We had
barely been going a minute before the bus stopped
again. We had arrived in Savusavu township, in time
for lunch.
Everyone scattered
into supermarkets, hot bread stalls, market stalls
and banks. In the market, the local townsmen were
selling fish and chips; pieces of battered walu and
tuna deep fried with cassava chips, all neatly
wrapped in yesterdays edition of the Fiji Times. At
the roadside, a local Church Group bellowed fire and
brimstone via loudspeaker, their less than
subliminal message wasted on the Motley Crew.
I paid for my trip
by cashing AUD$1250 in travellers cheques at the
bank. Walking around town the cash was burning a
hole in my pocket; I waited for someone to cosh me
over the head. There were no takers, maybe the
muggers worked as slowly as everything else here.
After much
procrastination and delay, it was all aboard the
Banaba Express: ding, ding - fares please! The bus
sped off in the general direction of Koroko. It was
a long and winding bus ride that snaked along the
metalled roads, through the thick, dark, primeval
rainforests of Vanua Levu. The scenery was a
continual juxtaposition of imagery where forests,
beaches, local villages and the occasional tourist
resort flashed rapidly past.
Local buses
squeezed by us on the narrow dusty roads, the
passengers shouted "BULA!" at the tops of
their voices. There were road works and packs of
squealing pigs. Mangroves lay stranded on islets
cut-off from the mainland, resembling bonsai trees
in the distance. Single palm tree islands stood
aloof and forlorn, formed by years of coastal
erosion and cyclone damage.
We stopped briefly
at the thriving metropolis of Savusavu airport. It
probably possessed the only toilet between here and
Rotuma. Like lemmings with rippling bowels, we
plummeted down the bus steps for a spot of light
relief. The Sunflower Airlines Twin Otter sat
emptily on the runway, without any passengers. The
pilots demonstrated a perfect take off, just as we
were leaving.
There was much
hilarity on the bus as the people on the left hand
side complained about the sun, which turned their
seats into ovens and blinded their eyes. Meanwhile,
those on the right basked in the cool of the shade
and lapped up the luscious beach vistas. The bus
reached Koroko, eventually. The ‘wharf’
consisted of a gap in a mangrove swamp, through
which we would pass en route to Rabi. A covered Rabi
launch awaited our arrival, but it wasn't big enough
to cope with our voluminous luggage and a bus load
of tired passengers. We were forced to charter
another launch from Koroko.
Human chains were
formed as baggage was moved from bus to ground to
boat. An advance party was dispatched in the Rabi
vessel. Now burdened with all of the luggage, it sat
low in the water and would be beaten to Rabi by the
Koroko boat.
As the sun sank
lower towards the horizon, giving us a romantic
backdrop to our arrival on Rabi, where a large crowd
had gathered to greet us. There was more baggage
transferral, this time from boat to ground to a
waiting army truck; heavy work left the porters
dripping with sweat. The truck then ambled its way
up the steep dirt road before its arrival at the
Rabi Government Guest House; it crawled to a halt,
having just missed the telephone line by mere
inches.
Sweat poured
profusely as shirts were removed in the evening heat
- the luggage had to be unloaded, yet again. As the
truck returned to the jetty, the view from the Guest
House verandah was simply stunning: the bright
orange glow of the setting sun contrasted sharply
with the jet black rain that fell over Vanua Levu.
It was sheer
pandemonium when the rest of the Motley Crew
arrived. There was a bun fight for sleeping space
and mattresses; everyone ran around like the
proverbial headless chicken. Talking of chicken,
dinner was served shortly thereafter. The communal
table positively heaved with food: mutton curry,
rice, noodles, boiled potatoes, tinned fruit, tea,
coffee, orange drink and of course, chicken. Apres
de jeuner, we sat replete, our appetites thoroughly
satiated. We were weary but glad to have reached our
destination of Rabi, at last.
Outside, the stars
shone brightly in the clear night sky. We were
serenaded to sleep that night by a Banaban sing song
ensemble. The night was to prove no less sonorous,
punctured by a cacophony of clicking cicadas, wining
mosquitoes and snorting snorers.
THE
END
Copyright:
Garry Hawkins: October 1997 |
