Bula!

Bula!

That’s how they greet you here in Fiji. A hearty welcome with a big toothy smile.

The Fijians also introduce themselves immediately – they don’t hold their names close to their chest like we do back home. It’s as if we believe the fairytales that tell us our names hold power so we don’t give our names unless absolutely necessary. When I get home, I’m going to be more welcoming with my greetings, just like the Fijians.

I’m also going to make a concerted effort to operate on what the locals call “Fiji time.” It’s an excuse and an apology, an explanation and a mantra – the answer to all time related questions:

What time does the dive start tomorrow? After breakfast – Fiji time.

When should we have our bags ready for the porter? When you’re ready – Fiji time.

Cyclone Pam is coming close. When are the ferries leaving? Today, tomorrow, the next day – Fiji time.

There’s something to be said for operating on a flexible time clock. It relieves a lot of stress because you no longer worry about things you cannot control.

Do you think the patrons will be able to embrace the motto?

When is the internet back on? When it’s ready - Fiji time.

Outlook says my interlibrary loan is coming. When will it get here? Tomorrow, the next day – Fiji time.

When will the next book in my series be in the system? This year, next year – Fiji time.

I’ll try it and let you know how it works out.

And now, without further ado, I give you The Shark Story. It has been quite a conversation point over the past 24 hours. Rob has had to retell the story a dozen times, mostly to the locals, because they have never heard of this happening before. We went for a bush walk today, about an hours drive away, and the elder of the village came up to Rob and said “So, tell me. You are the man who dove with the sharks yesterday?” News travels fast.

The Shark Story (as told by Rob "The Shark Man" Rutherford)

Isabelle and I went for a shark dive to celebrate her 16^th birthday. We were running late because our driver was operating on Fiji time so we had to rush out to the dive site which meant pounding through 10ft swell for forty minutes – the lasting effects of Cyclone Pam. There were two other boatloads waiting for us at the dive site – the water was crystal clear and you could already see sharks circling below. Everything in human nature was telling me not to get into the water but we donned our gear and Isabelle followed me in.

Twenty of us formed a line on the ocean bottom, 18 metres down, facing the feeding stations. There were six guides in total – two at the feeding station, two hovering above us paying customers and two watching our backs. Lots of two metre lemon sharks were already circling and thousands of schooling fish were also waiting for the banquet to begin. The dinner bell rang and the feeders began to remove large chunks of fish from a metal bin. The feeders were only protected by chain mail gauntlets and the rest of us were protected by shepherds hooks wielded by the other four guides. Dozens of lemon sharks approached the feeders and before long, black and white tipped reef sharks and huge bull sharks joined in. Fifteen minutes into the show, when everything started quietening down, one of the large bull sharks, well over 600lbs, swam straight down from the surface, aiming for the bait but at the last second, knocked the guide in the face and chomped into the poor man’s arm and upper chest. The shark started thrashing around and ragdolled the diver for a bit before severing one of his airlines. This released a cloud of bubbles that alarmed the shark and the beast released the diver and swam away. Our guide took the stunned diver to the surface, the injured man’s crew took him to the hospital and our guide returned to the bottom to collect the rest of us. 

After a brief rest at the surface, we got back in the water for another dive at the same spot. Most of the lemon sharks had left and we were greeted by dozens of curious bull sharks. They came within two feet of us before the guides beat them off with the shepherd hooks. That didn’t seem to be enough of a deterrent and the remaining feeder had to resort to cold cocking the sharks in the snout with his metal gauntlets. After twenty minutes we moved off to a nearby reef for a more sedate and uneventful view of the local sealife. All in all an astounding experience that I would do again in a heartbeat. 

This may seem like fiction, but I can assure you, it is fact.

Driving in the Land Down Under

Just in case you have a lapse in attention, these signs are there to help

You would think, given that the two nations are so similar, that driving down here would be the same as driving in Canada. Besides the obvious driving on the wrong side of the road, of course.
But, no. Subtle differences make driving here quite a different experience.
I've already talked about the beauty of roundabouts, especially for the directionally challenged. The other thing I love about driving here are the speed limits. You can race down windy country roads at 90km/hr and only have to take your foot off the gas a touch to slow down to 70km/hr through populated areas. However, if you are a little leery about careening though the countryside or want to slow down a little to enjoy the beautiful drive, most drivers will sit two feet from your bumper while they wait for a passing lane.
Some other observations:

• Australians are diligent about staying in the outside lane except to pass. So diligent, in fact, that on a freeway, doing 110km/hr, they will wait until they can practically kiss your bumper, whip into the other lane to pass, and cut right back in front of you close enough to kiss the other end.

This is a common sight on the freeway

• At home, our traffic lights are front and centre in the intersection, dangling directly in front of the driver. Here, every intersection is a "Where's Waldo" hunt. Sometimes they're obvious, sometimes they're hiding behind a gum tree, sometimes there's a bridge in the way so you don't see the light until you are 100m away from it. Often, there are so many poles with lights on them that it's practically impossible to tell which one is for me. I either wait for another driver to make the first move, or stay where I am until someone lays on their horn.

Uhhhh... Which one is for me?

• Left hook turns. I refuse to drive into the city for fear of the left hook turn. If you're interested, google it, because I don't want to think about the dreaded turn enough to try and explain it.

• Parking signs. I'll let this image speak for itself:

• Although I'm assured that pedestrians have the right of way, drivers do not stop for people wanting to cross at intersections. Even zebra crossings aren't entirely safe. For Canadians who are used to jumping out into traffic whenever they want to cross the street, a walk downtown can be death defying.

I've been here for ten months so you may be asking yourself what prompted this rant about driving. Well, I got my first speeding ticket. Ever. For going 2 km over the speed limit. On a street where, if travelling north, you can go 80 km/hr but only 60 km/hr going south. Cameras are set up at strategic places around the city and the authorities rake in millions from lead footed drivers and dumb Canadians. You don't even know you've committed a sin until you get a nasty piece of mail a week later.

This is the intersection where I got nailed. According to the Herald Sun, so did 12,500 other people last year, resulting in a revenue stream of $2.8 million

I shouldn't complain though - it could be worse. Rob was threatened with a $230 ticket for having his feet up on the seat on the train.