Dropping Bombs On Your Mom

Below is an account of my first night in Fiji. I’d like to preface this by mentioning that all of the Fijians that I met on my trip with the sole exception of Suli were wonderful, warm people.

The Tokatoka Resort is the Fijian version of the Airport Howard
Johnson, my travel agent put me there for the stopover between Nadi
and the Beachcomber Island Resort. There are very few frills, some
uncomfortable vacationing Indians, and a spartan pool that, in its
defence, has a swim-up bar. The hospitality is world class though,
everywhere I turn I’m greeted with “Bula” — the Fijian “Aloha”. I’m
not yet confident enough to return it as I’m afraid that I’ll
pronounce it wrong and insult someone’s mother. Fiji is not the place
to haphazardly go about insulting mothers, this is a scientific fact.

Behind the tables in the Tokatoka cantina is a notice board with each
of the house cocktails and an ingredient listing, all of the drinks
are illustrated in perfect signboard glory. I am contenting myself
with a Fiji Bitter which the barmaid recommended with great
enthusiasm, pegging me for being a beer-type right off the bat. It’s a
nice crisp beer made by international brewing concern Foster’s Pacific
Group. The recipe evidently consists of washing detergent and forced
carbon dioxide. Fair enough, at least it’s not Sandpiper¹.

Not being one to sit idly at a shitty hotel, I made a trek into the
city of Nadi². I walked down the main street receiving “Bula!” every
which way that I went. I stiltedly responded with “Cheers mate” and
grinned as wide as I could. Not being hungry but being curious, I
walked into a nice tandoori place and had a passable chicken
tikka. The waitresses fawned “I like your tattoos”, “Do you ride
motorcycle?”, “Do you have girlfriend?”. I smiled, finished my whiskey
and got the hell out of there before their thoughts drifted too
far. Coy gazes could soon turn into some manhandling and things would
get scary quick smart, I erred on the side of caution.

The main street of Nadi, like that of any third world town, becomes
menacing after sunset. The locals’ black skin blends into the
corpuscle leaving only legions of disembodied bloodshot eyes. A
Cheshire smile would break out underneath a floating pair of
yellow-white orbs — “Bula bula!”. Yes, bula right back to you sirs.

Walking a bit further I spotted a saloon, I knew it was a saloon
because there was a massive hand painted sign above the door that said
“SALOON”. It was just under the similarly marked “NITE CLUB”. There
were a mess of drunk natives out front in various stages of
disarray. What’s the worst that can happen, eh? It’s better that I
didn’t have an answer to that question at the time.

I walked in and was immediately accosted by a surly drunk named
Suli. He attached himself to me like a rhemora and we ordered a
longneck of Fiji Bitter. The barmaid, a tough woman keeping a stern
eye on the happenings in this saloon, laid down two tiny glasses and a
frosty quart. I poured quick and drank quicker as I had taken stock of
the situation and knew that things would be ugly soon. It’s best to
fortify ones self against these things, gird the loins and jump into
the pit feet first. I smiled as the lines came out.

“I want to be friends with you bro!”

“We find Fijian girls!”

“You are on Fiji time!”

These lines could be repeated by any young hustler in any developing
nation. I can’t hold him responsible or even blame him. I’d rob white
people for a living too if I had to live in a tin shack and bust my
ass for fat euro-trash tourists all day. In this game you either buy
enough beer to appease the brute or you get led elsewhere with the
promise of cheap dope and loose local women but you end up with a
cracked skull and an empty wallet.

The bar itself was a plywood shack swarming with drunken brutes moving
between the saloon downstairs and the night club upstairs. Everyone
had sweaty faces and wide, bloodshot eyes. I have you bastards, I know
what’s up. I was grinning and waving but they could smell blood. The
filthy pricks were ready to make a meal of me, I would be spitted and
roasted within the hour. On our third or fourth Fiji Bitter I was
spotted and waved at by two massive men, I returned a quick “Bula” and
cheered them. They made their way over for the Fijian version of small
talk

“Bru, nice tattoos. Check mine out. Fijian tattoos” And one of them
pulled sleeves back to reveal knotworks of scar tissue and black
ink. I’m glad I made friendly because first one then the other leaned
into my ear “Bru, Suli will rob you and kill you, watch out.”

I knew it was coming but perhaps it was hearing it put into concrete,
ominous terms that brought me to my senses. I finished my beer,
complimented everyone on their hospitality and tried to escape. I
moved across the street to the front of the petrol station, it was
well lit and full of traffic. My two buddies had already gone back up
to the saloon, having done their good deed for the day.

It was no use, Suli (who I continually called Sulo much to his
chagrin) had firmly attached himself to me. He was in my ear trying to
intimidate me one second then appease me the next. This oaf had to be
dealt with cautiously though so I smiled and made liberal use of “bro”
and “mate” to calm his island fever. Every time I’d wave at a passing
cab he’d wave it off. Mercifully an Indian cabbie who was filling up
at the station shot me a look and was willing to drive me as soon as
he finished.

I began to make my way to where he was refueling. Suli stood in my
path holding my shoulders desperately. Luckily he was in the thrall of
the bottle and a bit wobbly. I caught Suli when he wasn’t expecting it
and just as the cabbie finished and unlocked his door I sent an elbow
right into his ribs, knocking him off balance and breaking his grip on
me. He grabbed onto the cab as we were taking off and held on for as
long as possible. As his grip failed I thanked providence for Fiji
Bitter and the fact that I had the good sense to get a few more into
old Suli before attempting my escape.

¹ An atrociously oily Indian pale ale that I had the misfortune of
consuming in the wilds of Mahabalipuram, Tamil Nadu.

² Which is pronounced “Nandi”, Nandi is a holy
Hindu bull and the name makes sense given the large population of
Indians in Nadi. Perhaps naming the town after a bull was too much for
the natives and they bargained away the extra ‘n’. At least I hope so,
I could imagine a smoky room with some scary Fijian Beasts and a few
sweaty but shrewd Indians “Yes, of course we will be spelling it that
way BUT sir you MUST pronounce it like this.” And an accord was
struck.