My First Days in Naitasiri, Fiji

Monday, September 18th, 2023

I arrived in Nadi, Fiji along with a class of thirty other Peace Corps volunteers at 5:45AM local time on a Monday. After hopping off the plane, we were greeted enthusiastically with hugs and smiles by our Peace Corps Fiji director. In our sleep deprived stupor, our PC Admin team handed each of us necklaces and a miniature Fiji flag as we walked towards customs.

Upon walking out the airport doors, I got my first impression of the island: mountainous, lush with forest and a sun that shone brightly at 6:15AM that morning. After arriving at our hotel via bus, we were shepherded into a classroom and quickly given our first lesson in Fijian culture. The sevusevu is a ceremony that announces the arrival of new guests through the sharing of grog, a slightly chalky liquid the color of clay-water that tastes as though it were made from the roots of the peppermint plant. A slight tingly sensation washes over the mouth upon sipping from the bowl the drink is served in.

To prepare for the sevusevu, we practiced clapping a powerful, hollow clap, sipping from our imaginary bowl for grog, and then following with three more claps. Grog (more commonly known as kava in America) is made from the yaqona root. From the classroom, we walked to the site of the sevusevu, a large outdoor gazebo structure with thatched palm frond woven mats lining the ground.

We all sat on the ground with criss-cross-applesauce leg positioning and within twenty minutes, our foreign hip joints were screaming out for the sweet relief of a chair. The Fijians sat on the ground, cross-legged, as they had everyday, and all looked quite comfortable. Our language director chanted in iTaukei, the native Fijian language, before presenting the yaqona root bundle. The rhythmic chanting was fast-paced and intense. The setting all felt surreal, and it was just now almost 10AM of our first morning in Fiji.

That first week in Fiji consisted of, language, culture, and safety classes all taught about a ten-minute walk from the beach. Fast paced and highly interactive, the week flew by and our cohort of thirty melded through the shared shock of diving head first into the crisp waters of a new culture.

By the end of the week, this hotel felt somewhat like home. And yet on Friday night, we packed up our bags to prepare for a morning bus ride to the villages where each of us would live in a home-stay for 8 weeks to learn Fijian village life.

Saturday, September 23rd, 2023

On Saturday of our first week, a bus deposits five of us into our new village, located about an hour and a half bus ride northwest and inland from Fiji’s capital city of Suva. One of the culture and language instructors chirps my name as I am about to hop off of the bus. “Psst, Alex,” Inise, one of our language and culture instructors makes a motion for me to take off my hat, a cultural slight in the village. In earlier times, head decorations were saved for decorated warriors. As it turns out, I am not a decorated warrior.

We are invited into the village hall where there is a buffet spread across a long table, the staple Fijian root vegetables dalo and cassava are plated at various spots on the table. There is fried eggplant in coconut broth, fried patties of a Fijian green called rourou, fish in coconut milk, and chicken in curry next to rice.

I sit among my fellow Peace Corps volunteers. Liam, Lauren, Katie and I are ages 21 to 26 and Christina is closer to 50 with children our age. She has a sense of humor and joy for life that transcend age and having her around makes almost any situation one for smiles. Ama, our teacher is similarly more than twice our age, and besides being our teacher, she also serves as translator and introduces us to the group. We all sit on weaved palm mats and enjoy the meal.

After eating a lunch of champions, we head to our new homes with all of our belongings, a large Peace-Corps supplied chest full of books and supplies, and an impressive metal water filter. From our homes, we return to the town hall's second floor to a large maroon-carpeted room where many men of the village have gathered. Most importantly, the chief is there to receive us and our welcoming gift of the yagona root. I sit beside Liam with crossed legs as both of us await our turn to sip the grog that is a part of every sevusevu.

Liam goes first and claps once before the server hands him his bowl of grog. As practiced, Liam announces “good health” as a toast to the room. The room responds back, “good health”. Liam downs the bowl of grog while the server claps three booming hollow claps. Liam hands the bowl back and claps three times along with me and the rest of the room. The three claps represent the land, the sea, and the people.

I am second to go of our Peace Corps group of five, followed by the female volunteer trainees. The whole ceremony makes us feel incredibly welcome. After our ceremonial first bowl of grog, the gathering strikes a more casual tone and the buzz of chatter grows among the 30 or so men in the room. Liam and I sit side by side and mostly talk to each other, still very much getting to know each other’s backgrounds and the paths that led one another to this, until now, unimaginable circumstance. Liam has a quick wit accompanied by a full-hearted laugh and conversation is easy.

A couple rounds of grog have passed and a young Fijian man from the village, about Liam and I’s age sits near us, seemingly interested in these two newcomers who blend into the local crowd as well as two sunflowers in a rose garden. Selema, we learn, is twenty-three and works at a resort on an island of Fiji, a full day and a half’s travel from the village. Selema is curious about what we are doing here and I tell him a bit about how we are with the Peace Corps and our Community Economic Empowerment project.

Selema asks about the flight, if we were frightened in the air. Liam and I say the flight to Fiji was fine and then go on to try to enact turbulence as it feels in the air. If you can create comedy through pantomime then you can bypass the barrier of language, a useful tool when making friends in a foreign place.

Selema leans to me a minute later, “I wish Fiji had a Peace Corps. I would like to travel.”

I am struck by my sense of privilege. “Yes, we are very lucky that the United States has such a program,” I respond. My response feels inadequate. I feel that I am one of the most fortunate people to walk the earth, to be able to learn a new culture, and see the natural beauty of Fiji, all through a relatively safe and constructed program such as the Peace Corps. I could have just as easily been born in Fiji, into overwhelming natural beauty and a welcoming and communal culture, yet never have the opportunity to acquire the perspective that comes with having experienced another entirely different way of living.

Selema is friendly and smooth. I have no doubt he befriends many of the people he serves from around the world as a bartender at the five star resort where he tells me he works. He has a gold cap on one of his front teeth and I must admit, I grapple with a slight bias of lack of trust of people with glamorous additions to their dental work. Is this a mental vestige of having watched Home Alone, in which the burglar has a silver tooth that shines when he smiles? Perhaps.

Another Fijian man, Sikeli, sits near us and points out my new dad, Tata, in Fijian. Apisai is his name, I wave across the room to him and jokingly ask “Tata?” He smiles and laughs with his whole chest, and waves back.

Sikeli then tells me that I will be called Apisai as well. Apisai junior (pronounced like app-piece-eye). This strikes me as somewhat comical, but I am all-in-all incredibly excited to have a new Fijian name. Alex doesn’t do much for me here, and it doesn’t fit the language’s convention that every syllable should end in a vowel sound. Alex would be most closely Eleki in Fijian.

Soon my host father, Apisai senior, starts towards the door. He uses a cane and hobbles, in the third stage of life by the riddle of the sphinx. For those who are new to the riddle: What animal starts on four legs, moves to two legs and finishes on three legs? Man.

Once Apisai senior has left, I look around and get the feeling this night of grog could be going on a while, and after five or so cups, the feeling of calm and a gentle buzz from grog has arrived. I turn to Liam and say, “Hey, you think we can make an exit soon?”

“Yea, I am also down to head out when you are. Not sure what the protocol would be for that though.”

Liam asks Selema, “Hey, is it cool if we leave.”

Selema says, “Yea, I can walk you guys home.”

We’ve each walked to our new homes only once thus far, and it is now dark. Our guide Selema is entirely welcomed on our walk. Liam (now Orisis junior) arrives at his home first. We bid him goodnight, “moce.”

Selema walks me another five minutes down a sidewalk and the town is mostly dark except for the bits of light escaping through windows in the homes that cast shadows of baby palm trees across the grass. As we near my new home, Selema bids me goodnight and gives the traditional Fijian goodbye handshake. Two fingers clasp to create tension and then release to snap against the drum of the palm. Goodnight and see you tomorrow.

I walk inside and my three new brothers along with a few cousins and friends are gathered in the living room. The room has no seating, just a mattress that a few of the boys lie on and a table that holds the television.

The boys are on Youtube and are scrolling through video options before landing on a video of a New Mexican Antelope hunt. I am somewhat bemused by the choice of video as I settle into a cross-legged seat on the woven palm mats that cover the floor. I wonder if the boys are selecting an American hunting video because it is what they think I would like to see. Later I remember that my college roommates in America used to watch time-lapsed videos of people building homes from the natural environment in a place that looked like Vietnam. Perhaps we are drawn to that which is foreign and interesting. Or perhaps Youtube is just a mishmash of our world’s culture and this New Mexican Antelope hunt is where the boys have landed today.

I feel as though my brain is floating in a smooth broth, a bit wavy from the cups of grog, a mostly pleasant feeling if not the slightest bit disquieting. I head into my new bedroom and open the chest the Peace Corps has given me. Inside is a mosquito net, bed sheets, a pillow, a medical kit, books on Fijian language, organic gardening, project planning and more. I set up my new mattress with a single sheet and a blanket. After this, I open the mosquito net. The net is enclosed in a blue container and after I remove the net, I realize I have no clue how to hang the six loops so that they cover my bed.

I walk out to the living room and ask the boys, “will you help me hang my mosquito net?” Within moments, eight of us are in my small bedroom and the boys are searching for nail heads and cranny’s that the loops of the mosquito net can attach to. Serupepeli and Ilaisa are my sixteen-year-old twin brothers and are the ringleaders of this crowd. At sixteen, both boys have impressive mustaches sprouting and look to be 200 pounds apiece, carrying the weight athletically. Seru leaves and comes back with ribbon to tie the loops of the mosquito net to exposed beam running across the room. Our motley crew of helpers have soon hung the mosquito net well enough for me to sleep under that night. High fives all around. Little do I know, this motley crew will teach me much of the ways of living in this village.

Soon it is dinner with the family. Fish and my new favorite stewed green rourou are bathed in coconut milk and are delicious. The dish is similar to a creamed spinach, and the coconut, rourou, and fish are all from within five miles of the dinner table. Farm to table is a necessity and reality of life here, as opposed to a concept for an expensive restaurant. The whole family sits along the table and I exclaim, “kana maleka” or “delicious food” and “wananavu”, “excellent”, at regular intervals.

Tired from the day, and a bit sleepy from the afternoon’s grog, I excuse myself and ask to go to bed. In the comfort of my new room, I fall asleep, mosquito net draped around my mattress. Tomorrow is Sunday, my first full day in the village, the day I introduce myself to the church.

My village in Naitasiri and the prominent church that sits atop the village

Sunday, September 24th, 2023

On my first full day in my new home, I awake to the sound of roosters crowing and a drum that announces the Sunday early morning church service. Drum bum, drum bum, drum bum. I check my phone: 4:01AM. I turn to one side and weave in and out of dreams and thoughts of the day ahead.

At half past five, I decide to pull back the mosquito net that drapes around my mattress and start my day. I pull on a thin pair of pants and cotton shirt and slowly wake my body up with morning stretches. Shortly after, I sit cross-legged, close my eyes, and allow everything around me to melt away except for my breath. Once I have counted four repetitions of ten breaths, I open my eyes and feel the space and ease that follows a morning meditation.

Next, I sprawl myself and my Fijian Language notebooks across the floor. Church starts at ten and today, I am introducing myself to the church, and with it, many of the residents of the village. Using twelve of the twenty Fijian words I know, I will say: “Hello and thank you. My name in Naqali is Apisai. My name in America is Alex Schluter. I am from New Jersey, America. Big thank you.”

In Fijian, the greeting that is used for hello and thank you is "bula" or "bula vinaka"-"bula" translates to health/life, and "vinaka", good/thanks. More literally, the Fijian greeting translates to “Good life”. Good life indeed.

At around seven, I am beckoned to breakfast. “Apisai, food!” my host mother Taravini calls out. “Good morning”, I say as I sit cross-legged across from Apisai senior, my namesake and host-father. I have five new host-siblings: my eldest sister Manaini is twenty-five, then Jasiliva, twenty-three, sixteen year old twins, Serupepeli and Ilaisa, and a ten year old brother, Sikeli. All eight of us sit on both sides of a long table on the floor of the kitchen and dining area.

Breakfast is out and covered by towels to protect the morning’s bounty from the flies. Apisai senior announces, “Masu” and we all bow our heads in prayer. After a well practiced Fijian prayer,“Ameni”. Time to eat.

The towels are lifted to reveal warm fluffy buns perfectly rounded and fresh from the oven. Sunflower butter and jam are mixed together in a bowl so that we can apply it generously to the buns. Nana (mother) pours hot water from an old kettle through tea leaves in a strainer and hands me my cup of tea. Everyone feels kind and there are many smiles and conversations in Fijian that I am not a part of. They ask where I am from in America and I describe how New Jersey is to New York City as Naitasiri Province is to Suva, the capital of Fiji and home to about 180,000. The buns are delicious.

After breakfast, I am back in my room where I throw on my best bula shirt, the Fijian name for a Hawaiian shirt, a pair of shorts, and a wrap-around black sulu that goes just past my knees. The “pocket sulu” is the skirt that men wear to a formal event. The shorts underneath are just an insurance policy against flashing any unsuspecting church-goers as I learn to navigate the wearing a skirt.

Once dressed and ready, I head out to church with my family. The church lies atop a hill at the center of the village. From the front steps, you can see miles of jungle, but I don’t take the time to appreciate that this morning as I am shuffled through the front door and into the pew closest to the pastor and village chief. I am joined by my four fellow Peace Corps Trainees and our culture and language teacher, Ama. Soon after the pastor has reached a pause in the sermon, Ama tells us it is our turn. I walk up to the front of the church nervously and stand beside my fellow trainees.

“Good life. My name in Naqali is Apisai. My name in America is Alex Schluter. I am from New Jersey, America. Big thank you.” Ama smiles at me, I nailed it. I sit down, proud of my basic Fijian sentences and my teachers’ approval. This week, I am a child growing up again.

After my introduction at church, I sing a hymn along with my family. I hum along the words, trying to match pitch with my brothers, mom, and cousins. I am doing my best to blend into their tune.

To close service, the choir sings. The choir at our church is beautiful and the sound of twenty-some voices vibrating in harmony ricochets about the ceiling and engulfs me and the rest of the congregation. I tear up a bit at the beauty, and at the newness of everything. The best Sonos surround sound system could not capture this moment with all its glory.

After church, we return home for a feast of chicken curry, rice, cassava, fish with greens and coconut milk. After lunch, I retire to my bedroom. Sunday is a day of church, a day of eating, and a day of rest. Not many other activities are allowed on Sundays, and I am not one to eschew the opportunity for a nap.

After my nap, my host-mother, or as I call her, "na," invites me down the winding footpath that leads to the town hall. My na has invited me to choir practice, noting that I have a good singing voice after this morning’s sessions. While flattered, this is new feedback I am receiving about my singing. Most of my life I’ve been asked by close friends and family members to let the radio do the singing.

We enter choir practice and about twenty members of the choir are spread out, cross legged across the town hall floor and the audio is once again stunning. I sit towards the back of the room in between the men and women who are roughly divided down the middle. "Do, ray, me, fo, so, la, ti, dos" fill the small village hall. Initially, I assume they are singing in Fijian, but no, it is simply the eight notes of a scale. This method of learning a song conjures up vague memories from The Sound of Music.

A shorter man with a wide grin waves me up to the front of the room, “Apisai”. I come and sit between him and another member of the choir. “You will be a tenor,” he says as though it is the most natural thing in the world. I follow the lead of the tenors on either side of me. We run through a hymn using the eight musical tones mastering the rhythm and notes. The singing is beautiful, I want to burst into applause at the end, but the heavyset director at the front of the room simply nods and says some words in Fijian directed towards the altos. He busts out a few notes demonstrating some shortcoming in the song and indicates we should start again. No wonder the choir is so talented, this is serious business.

After the run through with notes, we layer the lyrics on top of the notes and rhythm. I struggle to match notes with the tenors and read the sheet music all at once. The pronunciation of syllables is different in Fijian, the sheet music indicates pauses and rests in a way I have never seen, my brain is working triple time to keep up. I feel neurons firing in my brain that have been dormant for years, have maybe never been triggered. My first full day in my Fijian village is more than I could have hoped.

Monday, September 28th, 2023

A Monday in the village means I walk across town to our first class in the town hall. Class is in the upstairs room of our town hall and the wind moves the curtains. My four fellow Peace Corps Trainees and our language and culture instructor, Ama, all sit on the floor’s woven mats. Stepping into a room with native English speakers is a breath of fresh air. My brain goes back to working single time. While the newness of the language and culture is amazing, it is uncomfortable, and the small comfort of speaking fluent English with new friends is refreshing.

Classes are a treat for me. I enjoyed school growing up and all the way through college, so being back in the classroom delights me. We practice introducing ourselves with our new Fijian names and saying hello formally and informally. We learn bits and pieces of Fijian culture, how not to turn our back to the chief, how we know if we are being flirted with. A handshake and a scratch of the palm with the middle finger is a sure indicator that you are in the presence of a suitor. Now, if you are uninterested, how do you let them know? A swift pullback of the palm and look of disgust will send the right message. All helpful cultural learnings.

Between morning and afternoon classes, we return home for lunch, and then its back to class. Now we are being introduced to a toolkit of ways to learn our community, find out how we can help meet any needs they might have, and then to successfully carry out a project alongside counterparts in the community. The toolkit is dense but includes activities like a community walk and mapping session that will allow us to learn key homes and relationships. I make a note to do this later that week.

Afternoon classes end and its time for my seven-minute walk home. As I walk through the village, children and parents poke their heads out of windows and yell out to me “Bula Apisai!”. I call back “Bula maleka”, or “good life!”

After saying hi to my mom and dad, na and ta, I settle onto the living room floor to continue learning the language. Of all the things we are learning, I suspect this will be among the most important to making the most of my time in Fiji. I could be studying in my room, a quieter space without distraction, but I choose the living room so that my family knows I am open to interaction, and so that I can see the going-ons of the house and village.

Within ten minutes, my choice of study location pays off as I see my three brothers heading towards the river in swimsuits.

“Swimming?” I call out!

“Yes, swimming,” Seru and Ilaisa respond, sixteen, and leaders of the pack of eight or so boys.

“Can I join?” I ask. “I’ll just change real quick.”

“Yes,” the group looks amused and excited with anticipation all at once. Something about the novelty of this foreign white American man who wants to go swimming brings joy to the boys.

I change into swim trunks and grab my towel. Within two minutes we’re out the door and headed towards the river. We walk on a muddy path, and I go slowly with boys behind me and in front of me who watch my every step. We are all barefoot and I can tell that their feet and toes are more dexterous than my own by the way they move gracefully over the slick surface. While they move with ease, I take measured steps down the gradual incline.

We walk alongside a shallow stream, a man-made drain that heads out to the river. Along both sides of the drain are rows of the village’s predominant crop, dalo. The root is a starchy potato-like vegetable that is served with almost every meal. The leaves are large, verdant, and must be cooked down to eat. The stems can also be prepared by peeling and snapping and boiling so that they have a soft asparagus-like texture. The leafy greens guide us towards the river that runs brown from clay and sediment. At certain angles, the river reflects the overcast sky so that the river appears a shimmering silver. Across the river is farmland interspersed by dense jungle.

The river beside the village, as seen from the main road

I lay my shirt on the shore and we wade into the water. A few steps in and the boys ask, “can you swim?”

“Yes, I can swim,” I say. “I am a good swimmer. Who is the best swimmer here?”

Rusiate and Junior, both sinewy and fit from the play and labor of a boy in the village raise their hands in unison. We all wade into the muddy and sandy river and navigate some tree debris that hides under the brown water. I dive under and take a few strokes, showing that I can in fact swim. One of the sixteen-year-old twins swims with a bamboo log and pushes it in my direction, still skeptical that I am able to keep myself above the water. We stay to the side of the river where the current is swirling and away from the center of the river that sweeps downstream steadily. The boys find a floating log and one tries to stand and balance as it turns beneath his feet before falling to much laughter.

The brown water is cool and cleansing. Soon the boys ask, “Want to ride on the boats?”

“Sure,” I respond, unsure what they might mean by boats.

Seru, Ilaisa and Rusiate disappear up the river and leave me with the younger boys. Within a few minutes, they return, each riding atop rafts made from five or six bamboo logs tied together and holding a paddle made from a bamboo log that has been cut at the ends to create semi-cylindrical sides that can pull the water. The vessel is an all-bamboo kayak. I am invited upon Seru’s raft. I hop up onto the bamboo and sit cross legged as I am paddled down river.

The boys swim in the water and paddle their bamboo rafts towards a meet-up point like a makeshift naval fleet. The boys on rafts start pulling a fishing net up from beneath the surface of the water. Plastic bottles buoy the top of the net above the water, and as the boys pull the net up above the surface, a wriggling silver fish is caught in the net. Soon, I am right next to the floating bottles and Seru and I help pull the net up to reveal three fish, and four!

Junior, who is treading water, grasps one of the fish and attempts to pry it free from the net. He comes up for air every ten seconds or so until he has the fish clasped firmly in one hand with his opposite pointer finger hooked through its gill and out his mouth.

“Here,” he pushes the fish my way. I gingerly hook my finger inside the gill with one hand and grasp the fish with the other. In a last desperate attempt at life, the fish thrashes and slides out of my grasp onto the bamboo. Seru’s hands hop upon the fish, and he smiles at me knowingly. That could have been bad, this is going to be our dinner. Still, he holds the fish up to me and shows me how to hold it properly. He demonstrates the hook of the finger through the gill and out the mouth.

I follow suit and hook my pointer finger through the gill and out the mouth. With the other hand, I hold the fish gently. I look into the black button eyes beneath shimmering silver scales and see the fear of a living being losing its last breathes. The sun has broken through clouds that have been raining on and off for the past two days, and the late afternoon light is beautiful as it illuminates the smiles on the faces of the boys. I am wide-eyed and sure that I have fallen into the pages of a children’s adventure novel.

One of the other boys hands me a stick running through the gills of three fish and says, “here, hold this.” As the guest of honor, I am tasked with holding the fish. I push the top of the stick through the gill of the fish in my own hands. Two more fish are brought my way, and soon, I hold a stick with six fish. They are heavy and I am nervous the stick will snap from the weight. Seru paddles us upstream towards shore, and the boys all have jubilant smiles. I watch as the fish loses life. Blood comes out from the gill of one fish and onto my hand and wrist.

Jasiliva, my twenty-three-year-old sister, stands on shore with her phone and says to smile. I hold the six fish up high as I am paddled towards land. While I have done little to help the venture, I am treated as the center of the procession. I feel a weird mix of joy, beauty, and the awkwardness of being a clumsy man amongst boys who is out of place in this river.

We arrive at the river’s shore, and I step carefully from stone to stone, muddy footstep to muddy footstep, up from the river’s edge towards my new home. My na looks out from the kitchen through the chain-link fence and smiles. Making mom proud feels good.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but six fish was a big haul. Three days of persistent rain had filled the river high, which meant two things. First, the schools were closed due to flooding on that magical Monday. When the schools are closed, the children are at home, and when the children are at home, magic can be right around the corner. Second, a high river creates great conditions for net fishing, and is what prompted the boys to put out the net in the morning.

After toweling off and stepping into dry clothes, I feel energized from the cold water, the beauty of the nature, and the pride of taking part in the fishing expedition. At dinner, the fish are far more dead than they were just hours before. They are fried and served with greens and coconut milk. We eat with our fingers and pull little bones from our mouths as we enjoy the tender white flesh.

Two days in a Fijian Village and already I feel changed. I am closer to the source of my food than I have ever been. I am learning the ways of life through the boys, growing up all over again. I am swimming in the river of life and letting the current take me. I trust that it pulls me in the right direction.

Not every day is this exciting. Most days are tame by comparison. I’ll go into more of the day-to-day routines of life later, when I have more time to write. For now, I’ll put my computer away and see what the boys are up to.