4 Days and 4 Nights in the Forest

­­Chapter 1

My first two months of training in Fiji were a whirlwind. Days were packed with cultural and language learning. Evenings and weekends were filled with late-night kava circles and impromptu adventures. At the end of two months in my training village, I headed off to Suva on a bus with the thirty other Peace Corps Volunteers in my class.

Suva, Fiji’s capital, is a bustling metropolis by Pacific Island standards. Our cohort had one week to shop for all the house supplies we would need for two years in our new villages. The week felt like a reality television show. Our class swarmed into town with wadded-up move-in money to buy gas-burner stoves, plates, cutlery, buckets, and an assortment of items that might be needed in our new homes. One Peace Corps volunteer bought a PS4 and probably had to dig into his own bank account for that purchase.

Outside of shopping, we socialized in hotel rooms and explored the city. We did our best to cram our time full of the stuff that lasting friendships are made of. On one especially memorable night, the Sunday before Thanksgiving, fifteen of us shared a potluck-style Thanksgiving dinner, crowded Fijian-style, around a long cloth on the floor of a hotel room.

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After a week of not enough sleep, I board a bus along with five other volunteers and our new counterparts. My counterpart is, essentially, the spokesman of my new village. I call him Kamu, which means dad in our village’s dialect. One by one, I hug friends goodbye before they are dropped curbside along with a hoard of new belongings.

With an hour to go before my drop-off and only two other Peace Corps volunteers with me on the bus, we are pulled over by two police officers. Nathan's counterpart hops out to dispute the speeding ticket. A scuffle breaks out as one officer makes a vague attempt at handcuffing the counterpart. Nathan, a volunteer with a consistent quality of calm, turns to me and says “I am going to go check out this situation.”

I say, “I’m right behind you.”

As we approach, the scuffle has dwindled to a passive argument between the officer and village spokesman. Nathan asks a second officer on scene what is going on. The second officer tells us the spokesman said something quite rude to the offended officer. In a wondrous use of an American’s power as a foreigner, Nathan attempts to diffuse the situation by hugging both the officer and his counterpart. The officer and spokesman are confused. Any residual anger is temporarily held at bay. The hug is awkward and sweet. I stand by for support.

We detour to the town police station and drop Nathan along with all his things while his village’s spokesman is being written up for his offense. An ominous start to a two-year working relationship.

After our detour, we reach the last stop. My stop. I am dropped off in Tavua town along with Kamu, Lauren (another volunteer) and her village spokesman. Once Lauren and her spokesman leave, Kamu and I wait for two hours as the pickup truck that will drive us up into the mountains gets fixed. I eat a one-dollar slice of watermelon (USD 0.44) from the market and watch as a couple of mechanics work on the pickup truck. One mechanic has a shirt that says No Brakes, No Gears, No Fear. On his bicep, he has a tattoo in a matching font that reads No Fear. He sips a canned rum and coke and smokes a cigarette with the freedom of a man who has No Fear. I almost envy him.

Once fixed, the truck takes me up to my new home which is an hour and forty minutes up winding bumpy gravel road. We stop once at a breathtaking view of green mountains extending out to the ocean a dozen miles away.

The carrier driver asks me in rudimentary English, “Do you know the difference between life in town and in the city?”

I think of many differences. “No,” I reply.

“In the villages, the people live off the land. They get food from the farm, they hunt wild boar, they eat fish from the rivers. In the towns, people work for money and buy food from stores.”I nod and take this all in. Sometimes the simplicity of basic language fluency lends itself to powerful sentences.

The truck pulls over to the side of the one road that cuts through my quaint mountain village. Many hands arrive to help me carry my belongings into my new house. A welcoming ceremony is held for me in the village hall. Afterwards, I am offered dinner on the floor of my new home while children sing a church hymn, rather beautifully, as conducted by one of the town pastors. I fall asleep quickly, exhausted from the day’s travel.

--

On my first days in the village, I am barraged with plates of fried dough and custard-topped scones that are delivered to my door by women and children. The generous offerings of white flour, oil, and sugar leave my stomach and immune system at half-mast.

Sometimes, life in Fiji is lying on the floor of your home sweaty, sick, and constipated, wondering when, if ever, this sickness will fade from your body. In these moments, I contemplate my life and how I wound up here. I also contemplate death. I feel as if I am living fully, and if I were to die here, at least I gave this "life thing" my all.

Spoiler – I don’t die. Not yet. The next two weeks are challenging as I deal with sickness and pangs of loneliness that lead me to call home to my parents more often than I have in years. Sometimes I turn on my phone to find not even a drop of cell service as the nearby cell tower is being repaired. Then, I must face my loneliness alone. It always passes with time.

Given my broken Fijian and the cultural dissonance, it is difficult to spend long stretches of time with new families. I have a smattering of meals with my new host mom and host dad. I go to church services at two of the four churches in our village of three hundred. I go with an uncle and aunt to graduations for secondary and primary school students. Cultural immersion is a long and winding process that never ends, no matter where you are in the world.

Chapter 2

On a Sunday, after two and a half weeks in the village, Kamu comes and tells me in Fijian, “Your uncle and I are going to go sleep in the forest for a few nights. You can stay here with Nau (mom) and the women.” And then he adds, as though curious to my response, “Or would you want to join?”

Initially, I think of my plans for the next few days — the language learning I should do, and the meetings with key community members to lay the groundwork for future projects.

“Maybe I’ll stay here….” But then an intuitive voice speaks up inside of me – Alex, what the heck are you thinking? You’d be an idiot to say no!

“Or maybe I’ll go with you and uncle?”

“You want to come?”

“Yea. When will you go?”

“Tomorrow. Some researchers are coming from Suva tonight and there will be a meeting in the village hall at 6PM.”

The dialogue certainly wasn’t as coherent as this, given that it was mostly in Fijian. But, I came away from the exchange knowing we were supposedly leaving the next day for a few nights of sleeping in the forest.

The researchers show up later than expected that night, so the meeting is pushed to the next morning. In preparation for the trip, I pack my hiking bag with a few changes of clothes, toilet paper, cutlery, a plastic bowl, a can of beans, a ziplocked baggy of oatmeal, and a shareable jar of peanut butter. With these items, I am confident I can last a few days in the forest.

--

My house is across from the village hall. At around 9AM the next morning, I see a host of new faces with notebooks and button-down shirts pass by my front door. Elders and many of the male leaders of my village start to make their way into the hall as well. With no formal invitation, I follow and sit towards the back of the semicircle formation that is customary for these welcoming ceremonies. Beside me, four female researchers sit, one takes notes, and another has a large camera.

I listen to a discussion of logistics and try my best to follow. The only new information I can absorb is that the team will spend four nights in the forest.

After some fifteen minutes or so, I whisper to the woman next to me, “Hi, I am a Peace Corps Volunteer who lives in the village, is it okay if I go with you?” I am very uncertain if and why I would be included on this adventure.

The response; “Yes, of course.”

“You will go for four nights?”

“Yes, we will leave today, and come back Friday.” The researchers are from the capital city and speak near-fluent English, so this conversation is easy.

“Na yacaqu Apisai mai Viti. O cei na yacamu? (My name is Apisai in Fiji. What is your name?)”

“My name is Kelera,” she says with a smile. My Fijian name and introduction often bring a smile to the faces of the native people.

I read the label on her shirt, Nature Fiji. “You’re here as a part of Nature Fiji?” I ask astutely.

“Yes. We all are,” she whispers glancing at her coworkers around the room.

“Cool.”

The meeting comes to a close, and now that it is confirmed that I am tagging along, I take up my backpack and grab my camera to document the adventure. A mix of village guides and Nature Fiji researchers are gathered on the lawn. Snap. I take a picture of the team that has assembled.

“Api, mai (come)!” My host father beckons me to join the picture. Snap. 

As we pose for that picture, we capture a moment in time and place. We are unified and ready to spend four days and four nights together in the forest. Almost ready that is. There are a few dozen large white bags of food and equipment that must be loaded onto horseback before we set off.

As I am squatting in the shade of a tree, one of my new friends, Akuila, a thirty-five-year-old in the village, asks with surprise, “Api, are you going into the forest?”

“Io (yes)” I say.

“Are you sleeping in the forest?”

“Io, au sa vano moce mai na veikai (Yes, I’m going to sleep in the forest).”

“For how long?”

“Na va bogi (Four nights).”

“Be careful Api, I’m worried about you.” Akuila pauses looking concerned. “How about only one night. Come back tomorrow?”

“Beka (Maybe).” I find it is best not to disagree outright here, so a vague maybe is a good go-to.

“Okay Api, be careful out there.”

“Io, vaka malua. Eh, Akuila? (Yes, take it slowly. Eh, Akuila?).” Taking it slowly is the Fijian way.

The base of the trail towards Mount Tomaniivi is our starting point. The air is filled with the chatter and excitement of a village savoring this spontaneous arrival of adventure and newcomers. A few of the guys on horseback beckon me to lead our trek up a wide, stony path towards the silhouette of the tallest mountain in Fiji. I turn back for a last glimpse of the village. Snap.

Off we go!

My pack is heavy, and the trail has a few inclines that labor my breathing. I take it one step at a time. We walk for about an hour and then break. After water and cigarettes (none for me, thanks) the guys from the village put their machetes to work and start chopping grass and trees. I stand around and think of how I might make myself useful and come up blank. Maybe I’ll take a picture of the boys! Snap.

The boys!

A few guys emerge with thick logs. I sit in the shade as useless as a sack of Cassava, the ubiquitous Fijian root crop. A tent frame made from logs and tree limbs begins to take shape. Soon the researchers arrive, and it gives me slight solace seeing that even the stronger men among them do not help with the construction. The villagers work together with few words – an outsider would only slow their work.

After one tent frame has been assembled, we lie down on tarps and eat a lunch of tinned fish and canned beef with crackers. Then, the villagers are back to work. I am back to feeling useless.

By around 4PM, two large A-frames with tarps overhead have been constructed. The researchers begin setting up their tents and one of the researchers asks if I have my own tent. I clumsily explain my plan. “No, I brought a hammock and thought I’d hang it in the woods with a tarp cover."

Fran, a friendly 26-year-old on Nature Fiji’s bird team looks at me doubtfully and says they have a tent for me. I ask if it is a spare, afraid of taking up unnecessary space. Fran replies with a smile, “Don’t worry, you’re a special guest.”

This is the reality of being a white male Peace Corps Volunteer in Fiji. I am almost always afforded preferential treatment, whether it is being the first to be served food at dinner or being directed to sit among the village elders at ceremonial gatherings. I wonder if a female Peace Corps Volunteer would have been invited on this same trip.

My tent gets set up beside the women’s camper (large A-frame tarp). My Kamu points this out to me. “Api, your tent is with the women.”

I scratch my chin unsure if this is a flirtatious joke or an oversight. “I think I’ll move it to the men’s camper.”

--

Before dinner we sit on the tarpaulin floor of the camper and Ta Vilikesa (Father Vilikesa), our 61-year-old bird expert and pastor, leads us in prayer. I have a flurry of mixed opinions about Christianity, but one thing I appreciate is the shared time spent giving thanks for food. I don’t understand most of the prayer, but I understand the thanks for the present day and a blessing for the land.

After prayer, we eat dahl with tinned fish over rice. I love dahl, and there is plenty to go around, so I accept the second portion when it is offered. Dahl with rice is a contemporary staple in Fiji, although not a native dish. Lentils are one of the many cultural staples that have been added to the island by Indian migrant workers who were taken to work on Fijian plantations by British around the turn of the 19th century. The tinned fish with dahl over rice is a culinary collaboration of the two largest population groups in Fiji – native Fijians and Indo-Fijians. I am urged to commemorate our first dinner in the camper with a picture. Snap.

At dinner, I ask Fran if I might go along with one of the teams tomorrow.

“Are you a morning or a night person,” she asks?

“Morning,” I reply.

“Okay, well you can come with me and the bird team tomorrow morning. We’ll start at 4AM.”

“Great, 4AM,” I reply.

“4AM.”

In anticipation of the early start, at around 8PM, I seclude myself to my tent and start to drift off from the exhaustion of the day.

--

My 4AM alarm hasn’t sounded yet when I hear the first few notes of a church hymn floating through the morning air. Ta Levu Maciu (Big Uncle Matthew) is the head cook for the week and is singing himself awake while heating up a kettle. My phone reads 3:55AM. I check to make sure no one on my team is awake before laying back against the uneven ground of my tent.

When I stir again fifteen minutes later, Ta Vilikesa, the bird team leader, is sitting up from his sleeping position. Although it is the hot season in Fiji, we are at the base of Fiji’s tallest mountain, and at this hour, and this elevation, the air is quite chilly. Beneath a rain jacket and two long-sleeved shirts, I am still cold. The chill motivates me to rise and find my way to where the tea kettle is heating up.

Fran joins us, and we have a breakfast of crackers and peanut butter with tea. Fijians call the crackers “biskete (biscuits).” Fran and Ta Vilikesa break the crackers into little pieces before dropping them into the hot tea to be scooped with a spoon. A fun Fijian take on cereal. Scooping out the freshly crushed cracker in tea allows for the tea to cool while providing a slightly crunchy, slightly soggy delight. There is no rush to our tea. We talk quietly and eat crackers for thirty minutes. Only once I am warm inside, full of crackers and peanut butter, is it time for our expedition.

Fran calls Suka, who will be our guide this morning. Suka has not yet stirred. He and most of the camp were up drinking grog into the night. As the name suggests, a hearty night of grog can leave you in a morning malaise.

Fran gives Suka a gentle shake, “Yadra Suka (morning Suka).” Suka stirs and begrudgingly slips out from under his blankets, fastens the button on his baggy shorts, and motions for us to lead. “I’ll catch you on your walk,” he says.

As we walk, Fran teaches me a new Fijian word – “tomonia”. Tomonia means listen. Usually, it takes five to ten repetitions of a new word in context before it sticks in my vocabulary. Tomonia happens to be fortuitously close to Tomaniivi in sound, however, and thus it sticks almost immediately, as Tomaniivi peak happens to be our final destination this morning.

It is past 5:30AM now as we trek across the stream used for bathing and clean water. A demarcation that we are truly heading into the forest. The sky turns from dark to a blue-grey hue that signals the chorus of birds. Or does the chorus of the birds signal the coming of the light?

Vilikesa says, “Right here. This will be our first point.” We all stop, and for five minutes, we listen to the birds and their many songs. Vilikesa has his notebook and pencil out. “Fiji Bush-warbler. Black-faced Shrikebill. Island Thrush. Ooh, hear that? Polynesian Triller. Two.” Ta Vilikesa stands with one ear cocked and a deeply studious expression across his face. As he rattles off species names, his expression occasionally changes to satisfaction. A rarer bird has announced its presence. He jots everything down.

To my untrained ear, the orchestra of birds is a mish-mash of instruments creating a beautiful soundscape. Over the five minutes, the calls become distinct as my mind grows capable of discernment. Sure, I don’t know the Polynesian Triller from the Bush-warbler just yet. But my ears are slowly able to pull apart the orchestra and rest on one instrument at a time. Standing here, still, in the early morning, listening along with Ta Vilikesa, I am flooded with a sudden rush of joy. How lucky am I to be privy to this adventure?

True to his word, Suka catches us quickly, and takes the lead. Suka wears a trench coat jacket and uses a machete to clear the overgrown trail. As he leads us through the jungle, I cannot help but take a picture – Snap – hoping it captures the moment as I see it now.

Suka, our fearless guide, machete in hand.

Our trek is slow going. We stop every 200 meters, for five minutes at a time. I do my best to take care with every step, as we move over uneven rocky terrain. Each five-minute spot check is a meditation of sorts. I let the chorus of bird calls wash over me, sometimes closing my eyes. The five minutes feel stretched out by the deliberate attention. As our official timer, I am in charge of telling Ta Vilikesa when the spot check is finished. I peer down at my phone expecting the five minutes to be up; there are still two minutes remaining.

We, as humans, often carry with us the idea that we are separate from the world around us. Each one of us, a distinct individual, more or less going about this life business alone. This distinction from our surroundings is pure illusion. As I listen to the bird calls, the vibrations of sound from the throat of a Fiji Bush-warbler ring inside my ear drum. These calls become a real part of me and my experience. As the calls wash over me, I feel connected to the forest. I do not forget who I am, nor do I experience a full sense of oneness with the forest, but the worries, wants, and constant grasping of my human mind soften.

If you are reading this post on a subway ride, or as a break from an endless list of work tasks, perhaps you’re thinking, “Gosh Alex, that sounds awfully wonderful, but I’m not in a Fijian forest surrounded by birds.” It can be, admittedly, more difficult to find this state of mind in a busier, “typical,” western life. But a daily meditation practice can put you in this softened state regularly.

This past summer, I found myself on a New York City subway, eyes closed, breathing slowly, and feeling totally attached to the movements of the subway cars. It was as though I were a part of the system of gears and wheels and metal that propelled us under thousands of tons of concrete. So, it is more difficult, yes, but not impossible. And with that thought, I fear I may be losing the thread of my story, so let us return to Fiji.

In total, the walk to the top of Mount Tomaniivi is about two miles from camp, and the last mile turns steadily steeper. Towards the top, I am grabbing hold of tree roots and hoisting myself up over boulders. 61-year-old Vilikesa takes his time and moves impressively for his age, a testament to a well-chosen career. Fran is now catching up to us with less and less time remaining in our 5-minute spot checks, visibly winded.

At long last, we emerge from the jungle to a grassy patch of earth and a sign that tells us that we are at the top of Mount Tomaniivi. A few pictures to commemorate are in order. Snap, snap.

At 4341 feet, we stand at the highest point in all of Fiji. From the top of the mountain, three Fijian provinces are visible. Ta Vilikesa points out the visible shifts in tree species. Parts of the island that experience significantly less rain are often grassy and light green, whereas the wetter parts are a lush, dark forest green. The mountains and shape of the island dictate how weather patterns travel and which weather patterns emerge where.

Ta Vilikesa pulls out chocolate cookies, strawberry cookies, and juice. I brought some plain oats to snack on. And after a moment’s hesitation towards the sugary, processed cookies, I decide to indulge in the camaraderie of a shared snack after a hard morning’s climb.

The descent is just as difficult as the climb. On the way down, my new home is visible from afar. I snap a photo of the village where I will spend the next two years from this bird’s eye perspective.

Navai Village, Nadarivatu District, Fiji

All-in-all, the walk takes us from 5:30AM towards 1PM. Ta Vilikesa steams ahead as we approach the camp, eager to sleep. Upon return, we are greeted by the smell of a smoldering campfire and the accompanied promise of hot tea. We sit down to tea, biscuit crackers, and a king’s choice of either beans in tomato sauce, tinfish, or canned corned beef. I opt for the beans in tomato sauce (seemingly the least popular option), and once full, promptly join Ta Vilikesa in a mid-afternoon slumber.

Chapter 3

That second night is much the same as the first. A small church service precedes dinner. After another dinner of rice and dahl with tinned fish, I am once again the first to usher myself off to bed. It often feels like I prioritize sleep more than most Americans and so far, more than any Fijian I’ve come across. Besides, the bird team leaves at 4AM island time. Island time is the concept that time is fluid, and conceived to be yours to manipulate, not to be a servant of the clock.

I set my alarm for 4:15AM and drift off to the sounds of deep hollow claps, as my new Fijian friends pass around coconut shells full of yaqona, the earthy liquid that is so deeply tied to the Fijian social life. Kava, as it is known in English, is an intricate part of social life in traditional Fijian culture in a similar way as alcohol is to American culture. Kava, however, is consumed in a much more orderly fashion. One person is served at a time and drinks out of a coconut shell while others clap respectfully before and after the consumption. Of course, the adherence to tradition varies by group.

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It is the second morning of my time in the forest. Once again, I am up before the sun and the birds. I shut off my phone’s alarm and unzip the front entrance to my tent. Our chef, Ta Levu Maciu, is heating the kettle over the fire. His unusually gentle singing hovers over the campsite along with the morning fog. Ta Levu Maciu is not the best singer. I should know; I go to his church many Sundays. But he has learned to keep a tune by necessity of his job as pastor.

Tea is much the same as the day before. One other member of Nature Fiji, Kelera, joins our team this morning. She is between 30 and 40 years old and wears an unamused expression until you get into a conversation with her.

Today, we cover more ground with less change in altitude. The walk is once again beautiful as we walk through diverse forest. At one point, we hear a bird call, and Ta Vilikesa turns to me with an eyebrow raised, “That bird is only heard in old-growth forests where there is a thick canopy and room underneath.”

Ta Vilikesa recording bird species. Suka marks our location on a GPS App.

As in much of the world, old-growth forests in Fiji are fewer and farther between than they once were. Roughly 3,500 years of human inhabitance has turned an island that used to be entirely forested into one interspersed with grassy meadows and clear-cut hillsides. Animals that were once cultural cornerstones are disappearing from the island. The Red-Throated Lorikeet is on the Fijian five-dollar bill but has not been seen in Fiji since 1993. The forested areas we are hiking are some of the birds’ last viable places for habitat. Given how few human eyes set sight on these forested areas, it is easily imaginable the Red-Throated Lorikeet is still out there. But the near disappearance is a reminder that even in a land that might appear remarkably untouched, the disruptive effects of humans are well at work. All the more reason why Ta Vilikesa is encouraged to hear a bird that only lives in old-growth forests. I am in quiet awe of his connective knowledge between forestry health and animal health. One day, I hope to have that command of knowledge of a natural environment – perhaps the forests of the American Northeast. 

We stop for lunch in a picturesque meadow of long grass. A tree provides shade as we lay out a blanket. I walk up onto a bluff to capture the team as they settle into the grass. Snap, snap. The wind dances across the grass in brushstrokes of quiet genius.

Bird team, day 2, settling in for lunch.

Lunch is again crackers, tin fish, and canned beef. The abundance of canned beef on this trip is a stark reminder that few of us are ever able to come into full alignment with our values. The Nature Fiji team has the job of researching and protecting Fiji’s forests and wildlife. Meanwhile, commercial cow farming is one of the leading causes of the greenhouse gas emissions that trap heat in our atmosphere leading to the identity changes in these forests, and the bleaching of coral reefs north of Fiji's main islands. I do not bother to point this out to anyone.

--

We return to the tent just before noon, and everyone is in high spirits. Although we covered more ground today, the walk was not nearly as exhausting as the Mount Tomaniivi summit the day before. Still, lunch followed by an eye rest is in order.

After lounging out on the blue tarpaulin-lined ground, Suka begins mixing grog. This particular grog session is much less ceremonial than the village functions with the elders. Suka, Fran, Ana, Kelera and I are all youths with slightly less adherence to tradition.

The prior night, one of the guys on the trip commented on the overall atmosphere of the camp. “You see how we are able to joke as though we are family, even though we have just met each other.” It was true, the villagers and city-dwelling research team had picked up banter without missing a beat, as though this was a reunion of old friends. The native villages across Fiji have established relationships to one another as defined by region. Ana and Kelera are from Vanua Levu, which means they are Tauvu to us gang in Naitasiri.

I went on to learn that the Tauvu connection is a flirtatious and joking relationship. A common comment is to call your Tauvu “uro,” which loosely translates to “fat in a sexy way” – or “thick” as the youth in America might say. To draw an American parallel, it would be as if anyone from Illinois were by default to have a flirtatious relationship with an American from Massachusetts. This oversimplifies things, as the native Fijians trace their lineages back thousands of years to the island and their respective villages, whereas less than 3% of Americans can say the same.

Ana trades banter with many of the guys in the camp in good spirits. Because the flirtation is defined in such a way, it seems to carry only the fun aspects of a good flirt. Of course, I am in no position to say that the persistent flirtation could not often be harmful and intimidating in the wrong context.

As an American, new to this whole game of relationships, I certainly do not take the lead. But Ana pokes fun my way and calls me “uro” from time to time. Fran nudges me and whispers, “Apisai, say, Ana, you are thick like porridge.” This is in reference to the rather creamy oatmeal we had been eating for breakfast every day. I oblige, and this receives a smile and laughter from Ana and the rest of the camp.

Once the grog has been mixed, we sit and listen to music on a speaker while a coconut bowl of the liquid is passed to each member of the party. At first, I resist; grog has the tendency to make me a bit sleepy, so I prefer not to take much in the afternoon. Suka, Ana, and Fran urge me to drink though, and so I say, “Okay, one cup.” Rain starts to softly fall on the tarp overhead. We are safe and dry, with music and good company. One cup turns to five, and the grog drinking loosens everyone up. Fran especially has a propensity for requesting her coconut shell to be filled to the brim. Getting grog drunk is a much gentler thing than alcohol drunk, but it is still an intoxication enjoyable to many.

We listen to Fijian remixes, songs with tropical reggae beats and electronic flourishes. A song by UB40, the English reggae troop most popular for “Red Red Wine,” comes on and I request more UB40. Listening to UB40 had been a recent comfort of mine. The beats are often groovy and reminiscent of 80s and 90s pop songs, with the off-kilter metal drum beat that makes reggae its own.

UB40’s “Come and Take Me” is a trumpeted track that carries only good vibes. As it hits its entrance, Ana taps me on the knee. The knee tap is a Fijian invitation to dance, refusable only by the most stubborn of function-goers. I am easily convinced and hop up from the tarp.

I follow Ana’s lead, still a beginner at the easy-to-follow Fijian dance steps. It is more or less a walk towards one another, rhythmic and slightly sensual. On the fourth or fifth walk towards one another, Ana drops lower and lower and moves to walk past me. I follow suit. On the fourth or fifth repetition, things are growing a bit repetitive and I improvise “the poretti,” a simple dance move that consists of stirring a giant imaginary pot of porridge while moving lower and lower. The five or so Fijians watching love it, and one of my uncles starts filming me on his phone. The pastor and chef, Maciu, who has so generously made the porridge each morning, shouts out “Poretti! Poretti!”

Later in our grog circle, Fran, bubbly by nature, and bubblier by the cup of grog, leans towards me and says “Apisai, I’m glad you can hang with us. Sometimes we do research with people from New Zealand or Europe and they don’t want to hang with us.” I pin that statement in my head as a badge of honor. I can hang!

As rain falls, the cracker bucket that was once full drops lower and lower by the coconut shell. The sitting, and conversation is interspersed by dancing every 10 minutes or so for at least an hour. This moment feels important. I pop into my tent to grab my camera. Snap.

Suka serves up kava. Chef, Ta Levu Maciu looks on amusedly.

I feel miles more at home now than when we had first made our campsite on day one. I no longer feel like dead weight; I feel like a foreigner who can hang, and who can do "the poretti" to great amusement.

Throughout this session of amusement, it occurs to me that the forestry team had not made it back yet, and it is getting closer to 5PM. The grog is finished. The speaker is quiet. And as it gets closer to 6PM, the forestry team is still absent. Darkness is falling and I would be worried except that no one else seems to be.

At this point in the trip, another worry surfaces. I haven’t pooped since entering into the forest two days prior. Concerning. In a break in the rain, I don my headlight, grab the toilet paper roll, and head out along a trail through the forest. I navigate wet branches and find a secluded spot at least seven paces off the trail to squat and try my luck.

For one reason or another – whether it is the new act of squatting to poop, the general change in environment, or the crackers, tinned meats, and peanut butter – my digestion track is stuck. I squat for 5 minutes in a deep state of concentration, butthole remarkably close to the forest floor, thankful there are no poisonous ground-dwelling creatures in Fiji. It isn’t happening. Time for a walk of defeat back to the campsite.

I turn my headlight back on and scan the surrounding trees. Every direction looks the same. In my state of concentration, I had closed my eyes and transported within my body only to emerge without the faintest instinct of which way will lead me back to camp. Where is the trail?

Oh man, what a way to go out this would be. “Lost in the Fijian forest trying to take a dump.” I can see the headline now. The authorities might have only found my toilet paper roll and decaying body except I hear laughter emerge from the distance. I head in that general direction. The laughter grows louder until I stumble back onto the trail. I was only seven or so paces into the wilderness, but getting back is a sigh of relief. I settle back into the camp for dinner, hoping no one is the wiser for where I have been.

Chapter 4

On our third and last full day at camp, I am scheduled to go out with Timi moko (lizard team). The lizard team is comprised of two women in their mid-to-late twenties, myself, and one of my many uncles. Kalesi and Kelera (a second Kelera) are both friendly and easygoing, words that I might overuse in my two years of blogging in Fiji. My Kamu's older brother, Ta Levu, is also friendly and easygoing. He is more smiles and less intensity than most of the other men I spend time with in the village. The lizard team’s job is to plant sticky traps in 10 or so different locations in hopes of catching and documenting species of reptiles that might wander out overnight.

We set out at around 9AM – a welcome, restful morning. Our team begins on the same trail that shoots up to the top of Mount Tomaniivi and veer off to a less ventured trail. Ta Levu, leads the way. The path is windy, and the rain starts to come. Nothing serious, but it’s enough to dampen my rain jacket down to my underlayers. The jungle turns to a darker shade of jungle green at the arrival of this rainfall. It is the heavy rains and hot climate that make the density of life here possible.

At our first sticky trap location, Kalesi, Kelera, and Ta Levu go about stapling sticky traps to one tree, one log, and one clear spot on the ground. My Ta Levu, who is ironically smaller in size and stature than my “father”, has likely already been with this team for at least one outing, judging by his proficiency at the task at hand.

“Oy, Ta Levu, you are a scientist today!” I say to him in Fijian. He chuckles and gives his signature hearty smile at this remark.

One of the observations I’ve had over the past few days is how well the scientists of Nature Fiji work alongside the men of my village. Here you have two distinct groups; well-educated scientists who work in the capital city, and rural men, young and old, who may have gotten a carpentry degree after high school, or may not have finished high school. And the two groups, with so much of their lives distinct from one another, work together nearly seamlessly. I hypothesize that the strength of a shared native Fijian culture enables friendships and joking banter to blossom so freely.

The second cohesive factor must be the setting. Camping out in the wilderness is, from my experience, the quickest way to turn strangers into family. Or maybe it is not camping, so much as sleeping under a shared roof (tarpaulin in this case). I wonder if an American mashup of college-educated urbanites and less-educated ruraltans might be able to strike up a similar relationship so fast. Perhaps sleeping under a shared roof can bring anyone into the fray, even a strange young man from America.

Today, Ta Levu wears an outfit I find incredibly hip for his age. I might go so far as to call it “Brooklyn chique”. He wears a vintage “Baywatch” shirt and timeless black Nike cap, both items I suspect he picked up secondhand as the Fijian thrift stores that are loaded with exquisite finds. Having spent six months in Brooklyn – a breeding ground for cultural trends and cutting-edge fashion – I know a Brooklyn chique outfit when I see one. Sporty, not overstated, and reminiscent of fashion two to three decades prior. I find it amusing that the cycles of fashion in the US roll out in such a way that two decades apart the same item might be on trend. In Fiji, the vintage stores seem to be filled with second-hand western garb, much of which syncs perfectly with a two-decade fashion cycle and thus looks well cut for contemporary hipster scenes.

It is in this Brooklyn hipster garb that my uncle leads us through the Fijian jungle, immune to the knowledge that his outfit would look befitting of a younger man exiting a bodega on the corner of 10th St. and Waverly. I ask him if I can take his portrait to document the fit. Snap.

Brooklyn chique; yes or no?

When we do make our way back to the camp, the forest team has returned from their overnight adventure. Through bits of conversation and the image of sapless bodies sleeping on tarps and pillows, I surmise that the night was cold, rainy, and short on sleep. I learn that the men spent the night huddled around a campfire beneath a shallow cave after getting caught on the far side of the mountain in pouring rain. One of the younger men, around my age, had gone and caught an eel in the nearby stream, which may have at least filled their bellies for the night.

Later on, the two chefs joke about my dancing the day before, especially my new dance, “the porreti.” They show clips of videos they took of me and Ana dancing, and me especially, looking more foolish and less suave in practice, than I had imagined in my head. I laugh along until my serious uncle calls over.

“Apisai, don’t dance in the forest.”

“Huh, Ta Levu?” Not to be confused with my easy-going Ta Levu. This "big uncle" is almost always dead serious and a smile from him is a prize well-guarded. I have three big uncles in total on this trip, only one of whom is the actual brother of my Fijian father.

“The forest is not for dancing Apisai,” says Ta Levu. It might be a joke, save for his face is as set as stone. “Dancing is for the village, and functions in the village hall. Don’t dance in the forest.”

“Yes, uncle. Set.” Understood – no dancing in the forest.

Some of the guys my age give my uncle looks as though he is being a hardass. And he is. But he has just returned from a night of shivering sleep beneath a glorified rock, damp from pouring rain, only to find I had been dancing with a Tauvu beneath a comfortably dry tent. I can see where his bitterness might arise from.

--

On the final day, packing up camp tastes like the last bites of a lovely meal. We are all a bit sad to head back to our much less magical day-to-day lives. At the same time, fresh clean clothes, and a wider range of food options beckon to me back in the village. I take at least one or two more pictures snap, snap, already growing nostalgic for the trip that is fading.

Ta Levu Maciu, cooking up a final meal with Mount Tomaniivi in the background.

A last meal in the camper.

I am one of the first to leave camp. I walk alone most of the mile and a half back to the village. It is refreshing to be alone with my thoughts after so much time surrounded by others. I have time to reflect on the journey, and the life that awaits me back in the village.

Oh, how glad I am that I said yes to a wonderful adventure – both this 4-day camping trip and 27 months in Fiji as a Peace Corps Volunteer. Upon return, I can get back to the work of discovering what my day-to-day life will become in the village.

Back in the village, I happily greet all the people I pass. Some, especially my elder female neighbor who I call grandma, are overjoyed to see me return from the forest still looking healthy. I don’t blame them for having worried, after all, I was almost lost forever in the bowels of the forest. I head to see my Fijian mom (who is only 3 years my senior) and tell her I am glad to be back and to have a mattress again.

--

Weeks later, I sit in the village hall to drink kava and tell stories with a group of older men. They laugh and tell stories, few of which I understand. The topic of conversation returns to sleeping in the woods with the Nature Fiji team.

My Ta Levu, the stern and admonishing one, sits arms crossed. I tell the story to the big gathered group. Ta Levu, sleeping in a cave, cold, and wet. Me, drinking kava and dancing inside the dry camper. Ta Levu returning the next day to say, “Apisai, the forest is not for dancing!”

The men laugh heartily as I make it through the story without butchering my Fijian too badly. Even Ta Levu uncrosses his arm and shares a cheeky grin. For me, getting this group to laugh shatters a wall of cultural separation.

If I can tell a joke in Fijian, then maybe I can fit in with these men. At least it’s a start.