Dumpster diving: thrifty, sustainable. fun?

Latest article:

Dumpster diving: thrifty, sustainable fun?

Hope you like it :)

A Different Kind of Island Escape: The Beach isn't the Only Thing Worth Seeing in Fiji

It is late afternoon on the streets of Nadi, Fiji’s third largest town, and horns are blaring. A long line of traffic waits impatiently as a barefoot boy in a Nike shirt leads a skinny cow by a rope through an intersection. Bizarre? To a visitor, perhaps, but to the Indian taxi drivers tapping their fingers against the sides of their cabs, to the grimy street kids laughing as they dodge cars to watch the action, and to the stout black women in brightly colored skirts rolling their eyes as they patrol the sidewalks beckoning people to eat at their restaurants, the scene is not out of the average.

One of the vehicles stopped is a bright yellow tour bus, transporting international visitors from the airport to their ritzy hotels in the gated resort paradise of Denarau Island. Looming up above the frenzied scene, the oversized coach seems far more out of place than the boy and his cow. So do the tourists. Sun-hats and floral-print shirts in place, the newly arrived visitors crane their necks out the windows, sticking skinny white arms and expensive cameras out of the air-conditioned sanctuary in order to snap a quick picture of the poverty surrounding them.

Below, colorfully dressed Indo-Fijian and indigenous locals shout and wave as they go by, urging the newcomers to return later and visit their shops and eateries. Some will. Most, however, will not leave their all-inclusive island resorts until it is time to return to the airport again. As soon as the bus crosses the gate into Denarau, the perfectly manicured palm trees and glittering pools will win them over, and even the most well-meaning and adventurous vacationers are likely to find themselves stuck firmly to a cushioned chaise-lounge with an ice-cold Mai Tai or Pina Colada.

In one of the world’s most exotic beach destinations, anyone can be forgiven for wanting to experience a little luxury. After all, it’s the white sandy beaches and crystal clear waters that attract most tourists to Fiji in the first place. But there is more to this small South Pacific country than deserted island paradises. Fiji has a fascinating history – the effects of which can still be seen in the everyday life of its diverse ethnic groups. For those who want to experience the “real” Fiji and truly see what this culturally dynamic place has to offer, here is a tip: you won't find it in Nadi. (And don’t even think about Denarau.)

Just a few hours up into the highlands, the scenery changes dramatically. The drab square houses and obnoxious billboards soon fade, and the towns grow smaller and smaller until finally it’s just you, a breathtaking panorama, and the open road. After passing ruggedly beautiful vistas of nothing but bright-green mountains and sweeping palm trees, the endless expanses of sugar cane fields eventually give way to a tiny enclave of neatly organized thatched-roof bures. Welcome to Navala Village.

One of the last rigidly preserved vestiges of indigenous Fijian culture, Navala Village is the only place left on the whole of the island where everyone still lives as their ancestors did. Years ago, a chief with excellent foresight mandated that no new houses be built unless they were in the traditional bure style. Today, thanks to his planning, the village is a picturesque, one-of-a-kind experience treasured by locals and visitors alike.

Best accessed by a bumpy, sweaty ride on the local bus – an open-air Leyland classic which looks as if it hasn't been updated since the 70s – the journey to Navala Village is half the fun. First, you will pass through the majority Indo-Fijian city Lautoka, also known as "sugar city" for its gargantuan sugar mill, the city’s biggest employer. Stop for lunch at Singh's Fast Food for some cheap but exquisite Indian cuisine.

Around the corner, do some quick shopping free of the throngs of tourists and hocking vendors below in Nadi, then get back on the road and head toward the town of Ba. There, you’ll need to stop at the open-air market. This stop is on business: you’re expected to bring at least a half-kilo of the mildly narcotic kava root (locally known as yaqona) for the sevusevu, the traditional welcoming ceremony when you arrive at the village.

Ambitious travelers beware: from here, the trip can only be made in the dry season. If it rains, the bridges are too low to cross. But if your timing is right, you won’t be sorry. Once out of Ba, nature takes over – you’ll likely encounter more goats than people. If you do happen to come across anyone, be it a woman beating out the laundry or a child kicking pebbles on the road, rest assured that they will be as happy to see you as you are to see them. Up here, expect a genuinely friendly wave and a shout “bula” (“hello”) whenever you pass.

About a mile from the village, the trademark thatched roofs of Navala come into sight. This is a perfect place to stop for a photo. As you get nearer, you’ll need to refrain from taking pictures until you have paid a $25 fee to the village headman and presented your kava. If you go to the village alone, ask to be presented to the headman as soon as you arrive. One of the villagers will likely offer to be your guide, and he will walk around the village with you answering questions and perhaps introducing you to the people you pass. For this service, he’ll expect a $10-15 tip at the conclusion of your tour. Cutting cane sugar pays less than $15 a day, so the villagers are all business when it comes to these rules. They know you have money, and they want it. Once you’ve paid, however, they are all smiles and hospitality – you are free to photograph to your heart’s content.

To be sure, you'll get your money's worth. The geometrically organized, strictly bure village looks as if it came straight out of National Geographic. Naked children run around laughing, and their shouts and giggles are the only sound other than buzzing flies and maybe some rustling leaves if you're lucky enough to get a breeze. It’s hot year-round, so village life unfolds and a steadily languid pace. Even the children play slowly; it’s too hot to run. Indeed, the slower you walk, the better – you’ll want plenty of time to firmly burn the image of this tranquil, isolated mountain paradise into your memory.

The walking portion of the tour ends where it began – inside the headman’s bure. Stepping into the well-designed, one-room house is a welcome relief from the stifling heat outside. As the headman and any other curious villagers that care to drop in enthusiastically guide you through the ritual kava drinking, take a moment to notice the bure’s decorations. The walls may be adorned with pictures, newspaper clippings, and tapestries. Perhaps one corner will have a lady’s touch, draped in a pink cloth, with cheap plastic purses hanging from the ceiling. Don’t look too long, however – your full participation is needed in the sevusevu ceremony.

Though the effects of kava are mild, the villagers drink it religiously. Preparation is fairly simple: after crushing the kava root with a mortar and pestle, the powder is wrapped in a muslin cloth and submerged in a large bowl of water (sometimes a plastic bucket if that’s all that’s handy) until the mixture begins to resemble a dirty puddle of mud. A coconut bowl is then dipped into the pot, and ta-da! You are ready to try your first serving. Say “bula” (this time it means “cheers”) and get it down in one gulp, then wipe the dribbles off your chin as the villagers clap three times and refill the bowl.

If an hour or so isn't enough for you to feel like you have truly experienced village life, staying at nearby Bulou's Lodge is a great option. Bulou and his wife are fabulous people, full of stories and hearty laughs, and they will be sure to show you a good time. If you’re lucky, activities might include hiking, horseback riding, and maybe even bilibili river rafting.

No two ways about it, Navala Village is no Hilton or Sofitel. But if you’ve read this far, perhaps that type of vacation isn’t really what you’re after. Perhaps a coconut bowl of kava whets your appetite more than a Mai Tai. Perhaps, for you, a visit to an exotic island paradise doesn’t have to take place solely on the beach.

Hmm

Is the blog subscription e-mail update thinger working?

I backdated the last entry so that it wouldn't look like the next day came a month later, but I think that may have messed things up.

Oooh, pah-don! (Tales of a New Zealand Farmstay, Installment 2)

After tea, we hop back into Jim’s truck and head over to the paddocks. Several hundred sheep are waiting for us, crowded next to each other between the fences. I have never seen so many sheep in my life.

“I’ll just get you to walk over there and open that gate,” Jim says, nodding to a rickety wooden gate on the other side of the yard.

“Uh. So, just go inside the paddock then?”

“Yep.”

“Right. Go inside the paddock and open the gate.” I enter, and suddenly I am knee-to-head with about twelve loudly bah-ing sheep. They do not seem thrilled to see me – in fact, they trip and jump on top of each other to run in any direction but mine. I never realized sheep were such skittish animals. That ignorance, of course, probably stems from the fact that my only previous livestock interaction has been with heavily sedated petting zoo animals.

I make my way to the gate and push it open. The sheep stream out into a complicated maze that is designed for sorting. Tonight, for instance, Jim informs me that we are weaning the lambs from the ewes. Basically, this involves me (with the help of the dogs) chasing all of the sheep toward an enclosed narrow pathway, where Jim stands a bit further down and closes or opens a door in order to direct the lambs into a separate paddock than the mothers.

It’s not difficult work, but it is tiresome. Clapping and hissing at sheep to get them to move is only entertaining for so long. I quickly learn to love the dogs, who are tremendously helpful in barking at the sheep and getting them to go the right way.

After three hours, the sun is down and I’ve got an assortment of sheep-related nursery rhymes stuck in my head. Think, Little Bo Peep and Little Boy Blue. When the sheep and lambs are finally all in the right place, Jim wipes some sweat off his bright-red brow and announces “Supper time! I’ll bet you’re hungry!”

My stomach does some gymnastics thinking about what Farmer/Chef Jim might have in store for dinner. I just hope it won’t be alive.

On the way home, the public radio station plays tinny 1930s ragtime music, and Jim sings along. Every few minutes he looks over, as if expecting me to join in. I give what I hope is not too encouraging of a smile and admit that I, shockingly enough, don’t know the words.

For dinner, we make corn fritters. Before getting started, I offer to wash the dirty dishes piled high in the sink, and burn my hands scrubbing the moldy pots and pans with scalding hot water. I scrub like I have never scrubbed before. Making corn fritters essentially just involves putting creamed corn and some milk and flour in a pan. Despite my wariness, I must admit, after a long night of sheep chasing, the starchy, down-home country meal hits the spot.

As we eat, I can’t help thinking that Farmer Jim is more perfect a caricature of the typical New Zealand sheep-shagging farmer than I even could have imagined. He comes from a long line of Scottish and English men of the land, doesn’t get out much, and says “Oooh, Pah-don!” and gives a little giggle when he farts. In some strange way, it’s almost too good to be true.

Stay tuned for Episode 3: Cows, Also Known as Mmm, Delicious.

Tales of a New Zealand Farmstay, Installment 1

As some of you know, last week I participated in a short-term farmstay program where you work on a farm in return for food and accommodation. The program is really popular in New Zealand, and done mainly through WWOOF (Willing Workers on Organic Farms). I found mine through the lesser-known organization HelpX (Help Exchange). It wasn't quite what I expected...but it was definitely an adventure. Typing up my journal entries, I'm realizing that this will be too much to digest in one piece -- also, it's taking me forever to write up.

Soooo, here is part one of my crazy experience.

***

The bus to Piopio drops me off in front of Elliott’s Garage, a two-pump gas station in the middle of Nowhere, New Zealand. Pushing my sunglasses up on my nose, my eyes land on a dark-skinned man in a white wife-beater sitting atop a red pick-up truck. His shoulders are sturdy, his brown hair is tousled – this must be my host. I smile broadly and stride toward him, the sneakers that didn’t fit in my backpack swinging side to side from where I’ve attached them with karabiners.

“You must be –” I start, but mid-sentence the man slides off his truck, pulls a cell phone from his back pocket, and promptly walks past me.

Nevermind. Not him. I coolly brush a wisp of hair behind my ear as I eat my words and walk purposefully in a circle around the gas station. There are no other patrons. Farmer Jim is late.

Ten minutes pass, and I feel more conspicuous with every decades-old car that putters by on the gravel road. Finally, someone pulls into the drive. It’s another pick-up truck – this time blue – with two dogs barking deafeningly from a shoddy wire cage in the back. I smell Jim before I see him, and struggle to smile through the cloud of rancid body odor as he calls out my name through a rolled-down window.

“Jessica?” He repeats. He is an older man, maybe sixty, with a round face, a bright-red complexion, and a thick white mustache that bristles when he speaks.

“That’s me,” I cough.

“Pleased to meet you.” He extends a clammy hand, which I accept with flared nostrils. “Have you been waiting long?”

“No, not at all.”

Jim quickly hops out of the truck to help me with my backpack. When I see where he’s going to put it, a tiny backseat coated with cobwebs, I hastily offer to hold it in my lap. He concedes with a goofy smile.

Once on the road, Jim informs me that we have to make a quick stop for milk. I’m expecting a supermarket, or maybe one of those quaint little “dairies” popular in New Zealand. Instead, we turn off the road onto an unmarked dirt path that leads us to a looming metal tank in the middle of a field. Jim magically produces a dusty bucket from the mess in the backseat.

“If you’d like to just come right along…” He nods to me. I step down from the truck and follow him up to the mouth of the tank, where he sets the bucket down beneath a spigot.

“This is my brother’s dairy farm,” Jim informs me as he sprays the bucket with water from a hose behind the tank. “We went in on it together a few months ago.”

Once he’s satisfied that the bucket is clean, Jim turns the faucet, and thick white milk streams out. It takes several minutes to fill. We stand there silently, watching the liquid splash. Jim squints in the evening sun.

“So, this is cow milk?” I ask, feeling stupid.

“That’s right.” When the bucket is full, Jim retrieves two plastic bottles and sloppily pours the milk inside of them. He asks me to screw the caps on while he rinses the now empty bucket. I try to hide my grimace as the cool milk dribbles down onto my fingers.

Fresh milk in tow, we continue on our way to Jim’s house. I am holding on to a fervent hope that despite the foul state of his car, the place that is to be my home for the next week will be slightly better kept.

No such luck. The truck bumps to a stop beside a small one-story house with peeling white paint and more than a few missing planks.

“Here we are, home sweet home,” Jim remarks cheerfully. “Sorry I haven’t tidied up in a bit.”

The front door is ajar, and I can hear the din of a radio that was left on inside. The announcer yells in sync with the program playing in the car.

“Is someone else home?” I ask. I was under the impression that Jim lived alone.

“Nope. I’m just kind of a news junkie.” He laughs heartily, leaving the keys in the ignition so that the radio will continue to play even after we exit.

Following Jim’s lead, I take off my shoes before entering the house. The gesture strikes me as more than a little futile as we take a perfunctory tour; the kitchen sink is piled high with dirty dishes, every surface is swimming with papers and garbage, and various debris I’d prefer not to think about crunches under my bare feet as I walk. When Jim said he hadn’t tidied up in a while, I didn’t know he meant since before the last world war.

Jim shows me to my room, a bare two-bed chamber at the end of the main hallway. A string hangs from a single light bulb in the middle of the ceiling, and a quick glance reveals a big hairy spider (or three) in every corner.

“Here’s some clean sheets for you.” My host digs a heap of fabric from the closet, and a dead fly falls to the floor as he hands it to me.

“Thanks,” I say. I can’t remember the last time it took me so much effort to smile.

“Are you quite hungry?” Jim asks.

“No, I’m okay.”

“Very tired, then?”

“No, I’m all right.”

“Good, because we’ve got heaps of work to do!” Jim chortles. “We’ll have some tea and then be on our way, eh?”

“Sounds great.” As soon as I am alone in the room, I give over to a violent whole-body shudder. For a moment, I contemplate sneaking out the back door and running back to Elliot’s Garage to wait for the next bus back to Auckland.

I make quick work of killing every spider I see (the official count reaches nine), douse my hands with Purel, and rush to meet Jim in the kitchen before I succumb to the temptation.

News Flash

Guess who just got puuuublished:

Fifteen rules for girls in Morocco
http://www.travelmag.co.uk/article_1361.shtml

You may remember this from when I posted it a few weeks ago, but now it's in a travel zine :)

NZ TV

I've been watching a lot of New Zealand TV lately. For the most part, it's a lot of American shows and infomercials, but there is the occasional uniquely Kiwi zinger. For instance, I just saw a pretty provocative TV commercial against drunk driving:

http://nz.youtube.com/watch?v=Vjn2JKrlkcU

Love that last line. What a motto.

I then watched the evening news and learned that a whole neighborhood was evacuated after some teenagers fired a few gunshots. I have to admit, coming from Chicago and Boston...I laughed out loud at that broadcast.