Lost Worlds

by David Yeadon

  Eric Leed suggests that travel today, “once the agent of our liberty, has become a means for the revelation of our containment” and indeed, in much current travel literature, even the epics of V. S. Naipaul, Paul Theroux, John Krich, and Claude Lévi-Strauss seem to echo such a sentiment.

  Leed continues: “The modern structure of global tourism annihilates a time-honored escape from the limits that have always defined human existence; a means of liberty from a fixed and predictable death; a method of extending the persona in time and space…travel is no longer heroic or individualizing.”

  Even Paul Fussell, that most notable exponent of the travel genre, finds the dominant emotions of what he labels “posttourism” to be “annoyance, boredom, disillusion, even anger.”

  I occasionally seek solace from the hard-edged perceptions and cynicism of many contemporary travel writers in the more dulcet tones of a Jan Morris essay or the exuberance-in-solitude of Freya Stark, who wrote: “People who know nothing about these things will tell you that there is no additional pleasure in having a landscape to yourself. But this is not true. It is a pleasure exclusive, unreasoning and real.”

  Yes, indeed. Following my little frisson of last night I delighted even more in the solitude of my journey. I had the land all to myself but, much more than that, I was, as an Aborigine might say, “in” the land, bound to it, immersed within its own spirit and completeness. Leed also returns to this idea, perhaps his most compelling, that contemporary barriers to true “exploration-travel” and the predominance of homogenized experiences “create a necessity for the journey back, inward, to origins and what has been left behind. Thus originates a new species of the old tradition of philosophical travel, a search for origins, stimulated by a hunger for meaning and content which is itself a product of generations of wasting, simplifying, and reductive journeys. On these return journeys the old motives may operate in a new way, and a modern death may be avoided, postponed. Those do not die who connect their endings to their beginnings. Therefore wander.”

  And wandering (both inner and outer) is what I intend to keep on doing as long as the leeches and the lions and lonely challenges of solitude do not block or eliminate my serpentine paths.

  That day at Surprise Bay brought to the journey a depth and a peace that is not always present in the itinerary of my other adventures. I felt whole again and saw the world, as my high school art teacher used to say, with “fresh eyes.”

  I’d been warned by Bob back at Melaleuca that the last day and a half would be the most wearying of the walk. He was right in one way. The land delighted in its own extravagance and exuberance, making me clamber up and down roller-coasting, scrub-cloaked ridges, across the sandstone-capped dolerite plateau of the South Cape Range (easily resisting the temptation to take an even harder trail to the nearby summit of Pindars Peak) and then plunging down again through more tangled, tortured rain forest to a cold little campsite on South Cape Bay at the side of the boisterous South Cape Rivulet. All in all, one of the most exhausting segments of the journey.

  And yet as I sat by my evening fire on that last night of the journey, nursing my blisters and massaging my crampy thighs, I sensed my temporary tiredness easing away and being replaced by more of what I’d now labeled my “Surprise Bay mood”—a glow of inner contentment, merged with a tolerance and acceptance of the walk’s vicissitudes; a sacrifice of body, bones, and blisters on the altar of innocence and wide-eyed wonderment at everything around me. It no longer really mattered what the weather was like, how hard and how high the hills, how deep and cold the streams and bogs…or even how tasteless those terrible dehydrated food packages had become. Whatever happened was fine. The journey was teaching me many things, giving me new insights, and, in a way, a new sense of me and my relationship to everything within me and around me. I had become the journey itself and the journey had become me. And that was more than enough.

  Even the wade through the blood-freezing (and overdeep) South Cape Rivulet in the early morning in no way diminished my mood. I knew this was my last day in the wilderness and although the external journey would soon be over, the inner journey that had begun would continue, and continue.

  A period of soft walking along the beaches of South Cape Bay led me across an unusual outcrop of exposed Triassic coal seams, hard and black against the seething surf. Then it was time to climb the sand dunes and turn inland along the heathland bottoms of Blowhole Valley. The winds blew hard off Pindars Peak and Mount Leillateah, whipped through the scrub and over the two ponderous domes, Bare Hill and Honey Smith Hill, to the south. A last blast of farewell from the wild elements. I left the beaches that had been my resting place behind me and passed over the watershed to the sinuous curl of Cockle Creek and the deep blue of Rocky Bay.

  Already the hedonistic pleasures of Hobart beckoned me. I thought of frothy beer, the camaraderie of pubs, grilled steaks and other “real” food, a soft bed, music, company—and tales to tell. I had no idea how I’d reach the city, but, as usual, something came up in the form of a farmer in a four-wheel drive truck who greeted me with an oh-so-welcome “Jeez, mate, you look like you could do with a bit of sit-down for a while….”

  And so I sat down on the unfamiliar softness of his truck seat and we banged and clattered off along rough roads into the greenness of small fields and farms and orchards and places with people.

  9. FIJI

  The Temptations of Taveuni

  My ticket read: Sydney—Los Angeles—New York (actually it was in gobbledeygook: Syd-LAX-NY/JFK).

  Flight times all set. Just a matter of hauling in my dust-stained baggage (the red dust of Australia releases itself reluctantly), smiling nicely at all the nice, smiling form-fillers and ticket-stampers, drinking a final stubbie or two at the airport bar, and then off into the crisp blue infinities, couched in plushy comfort, nibbling nuts, sipping sodas or something stronger, and sleeping whenever I felt like sleeping….

  And then I’d be home. Bit of a long flight, but I like the limbo of flying and I had three unread books I’d been dragging around the outback with me. So there wouldn’t be too much in the way of angst or aggravation. A stroll up and down the aisles once in a while to prevent bloated ankles and feet. Maybe meet a few interesting passengers, although I admit to antisociability on planes. I enjoy those listless hours of floating around my own head for a while and usually don’t encourage interruptions.

  After twenty-odd hours I’d be back in my big city. Back to the tangles of JFK; back to the roaring New York aggressiveness and an atmosphere energized by expletives and explosive exuberances.

  And there was my flight. Up on the board already, even though I was hours ahead of schedule (another idiosyncracy; I like lots of dawdle time at airports). And on time too. Everything set. All I had to do was check my bags.

  So why was I hesitating?

  C’mon, I told myself. Ten weeks in the Australian outback and down in the wilds of South-West Tasmania is enough for any weary world wanderer. Get yourself home. Go back to your wife, your lake, the cats, the squirrels and the last lingerings of fall in the trees by the boat dock.

  But I just stood there, surrounded by my grubby bags, watching the lights flicker on the departure board and all those exotic destinations flashing by—Honolulu, Bangkok, Port Moresby, Christchurch, Tokyo, Beijing.

  Something was not right…

  Had I forgotten something? Had I lost something? Had I gotten the days mixed up?

  Checking through checklists once again. No, everything’s okay. Twelve thousand miles all around this vast continent and here I am, on time, nothing lost, nothing forgotten, nothing mixed up. Everything ready for the flight. Just hand over the bags and then…nothing more to think about until New York. No more lists, no more near-drownings, no more riding around in crazy helicopters with no doors, no more leeches, no more tanglings with the red oozing mud of outback roads, no more blisters and a body badly in need of bathing.

  The departure board continued to
flash and flicker…Nairobi, Manila, Calcutta, Istanbul….

  And then it was there.

  Fiji.

  Something smiled inside.

  Fiji.

  Palm trees, sloppy warm surf, lovely open faces, quiet island beaches, cocktails overlooking purple-haze mountains, strolls by frisky waterfalls, lobster dinners by moonlight across silver-flecked bays….

  Fiji.

  Of course! That’s what was missing. A place to pause on the way home. Somewhere to reaclimatize before the rush of hugs and the surge of familiar things….

  Another lost-world adventure, maybe?

  No, c’mon. Enough! For once you could just go somewhere as a tourist and enjoy a few days of relaxation. Forget about your books, your photography, your sketches, and all your searches for places and things unknown.

  And the inner journeys?

  Forget about those too. Give your head a rest. Reward yourself with a few indulgences. Let your feet and weary body float mindlessly in a swimming pool for a while, basking in wide Fijian smiles.

  Eric Berne once wrote a lovely description of Fijian smiles—“these rare jewels of the world”:

  It starts slowly; it illuminates the whole face; it rests there long enough to be clearly recognized and recognize clearly, and it fades with secret slowness as it passes by.

  Fiji.

  That’s what I was looking for. And that’s why I was off to change my flight plans.

  And that’s how I came to be skimming in low a few hours later over a patch of brilliant blue South Pacific ocean, gliding over the fantasy-profiled mountaintops of Viti Levu Island and fastening my seat belt for a puffball landing at the Nadi airport…

  Fiji felt very right.

  For three days I allowed the other me to emerge. The one that likes lounging around, doing nothing, thinking nothing, wondering about nothing except the size and sweetness of dinnertime lobsters and whether tomorrow will be as warm and worry-free as today….

  And then the fourth day came, and things changed.

  I was restless again.

  Dammit. The wandering was over. The book was almost completed; what could be wrong with a few more days of seamless R and R? Even Anne had been understanding when I’d called her from the Sydney airport.

  “That’s a great idea,” she’d said when I told her about my spontaneous stopover plans for Fiji. “Then you’ll be almost normal when you get home.”

  (Wasn’t too certain about the “almost” bit.)

  So why couldn’t I be “normal”? Why couldn’t I just lie back for a few days and soak up the sun and the surf, the smiles of lovely girls, the company of a newfound world-wanderer friend, and all the serendipities of the soft life?

  “What I’d like to find is an unusual island that’s not too far away where there aren’t too many people, a place that’s unspoiled,” I heard myself saying to a man at the tourist office in Nadi.

  “We have over three hundred islands in Fiji, sir—three hundred and twenty-two, actually.” The man was trying to be helpful but obviously needed more information.

  “Well—I’d like some mountains, a few cheap hotels, waterfalls, lovely beaches, good weather, unusual food, interesting local people. A place small enough to explore in a few days.”

  “Ah, yes.” He was an Indian gentleman and attempting to be traditionally Indian in his organized selection of alternatives for my consideration. “Well—there are a few rather exclusive islands—very small—with lovely resorts on them…. Mr. Forbes has one on—”

  “No, I want something a bit more authentic. Something that reflects the old Fiji. I can do without fancy resorts.”

  “Oh, yes. I understand.” His brow was deeply furrowed as he flipped through his pamphlets and colorful brochures with all the intense efficiency of a railroad clerk in Bombay’s Victoria Station. “There are so many, you see.”

  His young Fijian assistant was a study in complete contrasts. He was lolling back in his office chair, stroking his thick black hair and smiling a very tolerant smile as he watched his superior anxiously trying to satisfy my ill-defined whims. It was a smile I was to see often in the next few days.

  Outsiders, particularly the Indians, who are the majority of the population in Fiji and whose families have been citizens for generations, are invariably regarded with amused disdain by the natives. Strict controls are placed on their property ownership, voting privileges, and other rights. The Fijians are determined that, even though now a minority, they will keep as much control, political power, and land in their hands as they can. Naturally they will work if they have to. But after all, in this sprinkling of South Pacific island paradises, work is merely a small part of a far more enticing range of daily enjoyments—cricket, rugby, kava drinking (of which much more later), discussing matters of enormous worldly consequence with family and friends, cooking, singing, lovemaking, fishing—and, of course, more kava drinking. If the Indians wish to labor themselves into early graves and accumulate far too many material possessions, well, that is their business. But the Fijian tradition of kerekere discourages such myopic pursuits by the indigenous populace. Overt success is frowned upon by less fortunate family members and villagers, and material things are not meant to be possessed alone but to be shared—on demand, if necessary—with kin. All a nephew or an uncle or a son or even a cousin thrice-removed has to do is say kerekere [“I would like…”] and whatever object—video player, chicken, pig, stereo set, dress, or even a room in the house—is desired has to be given, freely and with grace, as a familial obligation. So what’s the point of overdoing anything? If you become wealthy you are immediately vulnerable to the ancient traditions of kerekere. Best therefore to take it easy, share your good fortune if and when it came, demand it from others if and when it didn’t, and generally enjoy the freer things of life in a spirit of mutual unambitiousness—respecting the “collective ego of the clan” (the tokatoka and the matagala).

  “Ah!” A smile appeared on the face of my Indian adviser.

  I smiled back in encouragement.

  He was nodding furiously, spectacles bouncing on his narrow nose.

  “Taveuni!” he said with eureka! enthusiasm.

  “Taveuni?”

  “Yes, sir. I think you will enjoy Taveuni. We call it the Garden Island. It has all that you mention—mountains, beaches, waterfalls, not many tourists, inexpensive hotels and guest houses, and…”

  “And what?”

  “Well, sir—Taveuni has lovely…ladies, sir.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “Oh, yes. Very beautiful ladies. Very beautiful island. I think you will be being very happy on Taveuni.”

  “Well—that’s fine. Taveuni it shall be.”

  I looked over at his assistant, still smirking and polishing his thick black hair, for confirmation. He smiled a warm Fijian smile at me but didn’t seem to be particularly interested in our conversation. I tried to include him in.

  “Have you been to Taveuni? Is it beautiful?”

  The Fijian nodded without enthusiasm. “Of course. All our islands are beautiful.”

  Even from the little I’d seen at my hotel hideaway I imagined he was right.

  I decided to stick with my Indian adviser.

  “Have you been to Taveuni?”

  “Oh, no, sir,” he said sadly, the furrowed brow returning. “Unfortunately, I do not travel among the islands very much. I am always very busy here.”

  “Ah.”

  “But from everything I have heard and from all the peoples I have spoken to in this office, I think you will like it very much.”

  “Well—thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Oh, not at all, sir. It is my job—and my pleasure. Pleased to be taking some of these brochures.”

  He assembled a neat little pile of colorful leaflets, placed them carefully into an envelope with the Fiji tourist office logo on it, and wrote in a stiff hand: “Taveuni Island. For Mr. David.”

  “I hope you will
be having a most enjoyable journey, sir.”

  “Well, thanks to you, I think I will.”

  “Most kind of you, sir. Thank you.”

  As I left the office the young Fijian was still polishing his black hair. There was something about his attitude that annoyed me and I wasn’t keen at all that smirking at his boss…but what the heck? This was his country. This was Fiji. And Fiji, as I was to learn, had many unusual attributes.

  So out again into a sparkling blue morning and off to make plans for a trip to Taveuni.

  “Excuse me.”

  Someone tapped my shoulder and I turned to find the Fijian following me down the street, smiling broadly now.

  “I was born in Taveuni. It is a good place to go. I would like you to visit my family. I have written the address down.” He handed me a torn strip of paper.

  I was surprised by his sudden change of attitude.

  “Well—thanks. I’ll try and do that.”

  “They will make you very welcome.”

  Then he handed me a small plastic bag filled with a gray-white powder. “You should give them this sevusevu as a gift when you visit.”

  I looked at the bag and then at the young Fijian. The contents resembled something I’d once seen in a police station in Venezuela. Something very expensive, very illegal, and guaranteed to slam you behind bars, preparatory, in some countries, to a brief farewell to life in front of a firing squad.

  “I’m not sure….”

  “Please—it is only a little gift. It is a tradition.”

  “Yes, well, but…what kind of tradition is it?”

  “Kava. The kava ceremony. You will be their guest and they will invite you to join them in kava drinking.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “Yes.” He laughed suddenly and his face became one of those enticing, open, welcoming faces I was to see so often in the next four days. “What d’you think I’m giving you?”

  “I really don’t know—I wondered if—”