Day 5 - Thursday December 13, 2001 - 9:51am

It takes a moment, perhaps longer, to realize that the gravel lane I am traipsing up isn’t gravel at all, but coral. Unbelievably, the entire laneway that leads up the hill behind my bure is a foot deep in coral that has washed up on the beach over the years.

I’m told that to have gravel, or ‘aggregate’ as they call it here, shipped over from the ‘mainland’ for road construction purposes would be prohibitively expensive. Necessity being the mother of invention, one of the natural resources of the area is brought into play and makes a fine, if not superior substitute.

Same Day - 2:23pm

OK, it’s raining - pissing out actually. And getting colder. It’ll pass… I hope.

Later

Alright, I’ve been putting this off for three days now and I really must speak up. I’ve hinted at it elsewhere, but I need to drop a dime on the food situation here. In a word: it sucks! OK, that’s two words.

I don’t get it. This 800-acre island is almost totally self-sufficient; they even have e-mail (albeit on a 28.8bps modem). The chickens here lay so many eggs that most are exported to the other islands, the bakery takes care of the bread and pastries desire, and there is fruit, seafood (more on this later), chicken, pig, even mutton in a can (I ain’t goin’ there!). So why is it that the one and only source of prepared food in this place can’t manage to instill flavour in anything they cook? I had a curry the other night and if I close my eyes real tight I can sorta make out a ‘hint’ of curry (recipe - one word - two syllables - sounds like…)

I won’t go on, it’s just too tragic. Maybe it’s a holdover from original British rule: they cook everything into oblivion. You’d think, though, with such an East Indian influence there’d be some panache, some spices, something. I’m going to have to make up my own dinners from now on, and mix and match as much as possible from the menu they have.

Idle Thought…

Still considering my third week. What to do…?

Same Day - 5:00pm

As the rain begins to clear, I’m sitting on a stool at the “250” bar alternating sips from my cool Fiji Beer, a locally-brewed bitter, and turning volatile and instructional pages of Christopher Hitchens’ “Letters to a Young Contrarian”. Next to me a reasonably moderate discussion has ensued between a young British couple and two aging Marine-looking types from the United States. The subject: terrorism. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

When I was younger and began to increase my ‘travel circle’, as I liked to called it — each excursion, each adventure taking me a little further from home — I came to realize what the concept of travel meant to one’s psyche - mine certainly. It was Samuel Johnson who once said,

The use of travelling is to regulate imagination by reality, and instead of thinking how things may be, to see them as they are.

As a child my grandmother would paraphrase this at every turn - they were both right.

As my ‘circle’ increased, I became aware of certain travel patterns in the other foreigners I met along the way - nuances in some, outright attitudes with a capital “A” in others. While meeting people from other cultures is one of the precepts of travel, not all occasions were pleasant.

It seems harsh, perhaps even racist, to say this, but during this time I came to the conclusion that the world would be a far more interesting place to see if Americans weren’t allowed to travel outside their own country. There, I’ve said it!

I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve come across Americans — ugly and otherwise — in the remotest of destinations, where they believe the very place itself owes them a vacation! You need look no further than the local residents themselves if you want proof. They’re usually more than happy to regale you with story after story of their experiences.

As an example consider the following. With what little Thai I grasped from many trips to Southeast Asia I was able to discern the manifold derisive comments, slurs and otherwise verbal volleys aimed at American tourists and expats in Bangkok, Phuket, Surat Thani, Chiang Mai and elsewhere. The Thai people are well into their second generation in dealing with American “imperialism” in all its forms, considering the history it had as a base of operations during the Vietnam War. An editorial in the Bangkok Post put it succinctly:

“Americans…? They came for the R&R and stayed for the T&A! But they are welcome, of course.”

The Thais have absolutely no problem with the almighty ‘Yankee Dollar’, however. As one hotel proprietor told me, American arrogance is the price of doing business. Perhaps that’s the same everywhere. How often have you corrected a foreigner by saying, “No, no - I’m not American. I’m Canadian,” and watched as a previously absent smile spreads across their face…?

In Italy, Great Britain, China, Mexico, in Canada certainly, I’ve encountered the same condition. I know I’m not the only one who’s witnessed it. Increasing globalization — primarily an American initiative — does nothing to deter this spread of inbred egotism.

Having set this up, back to the bar we go.

John is an industrial chemist working the oilrigs in the North Sea; Helen a chemical engineer from Wales. Newly married, their honeymoon consists of a one-year around-the-world tour with the most recent stop being Fiji. Specifically, at this moment, the “250” bar. Next to them sit the aforementioned pair of aging Marine-looking types from the United States. One of them — I’ll call him the ‘President’ — wears a white t-shirt emblazoned with the ‘stars ‘n bars’ and the slogan, “Never Forget” - a reference to the calamity of September 11th I’m sure. I later discover that a red stain next to the slogan on his shirt is blood - fish blood. (And the ironies just keep right on a’comin’.)

As a good Canadian I’m doing my best to ignore the Americans’ pointed comments. Variously, “The only good Iraqi is a dead Iraqi” (tolerance and understanding not being their strong suit), “Mess with the best and die like the rest” (the REAL ‘Battle Hymn of the Republic’) and “My country right or wrong” (the old ‘revolutionary’ stand-by). Had he said, “Give me liberty or give me death” I would have considered accommodating him on both counts!

A small but attentive crowd of mostly non-Americans began to gather as the discussion rose to the level of argument and veered dangerously close to pitch battle. John and Helen were doing their level best, defending the realm as it were from the foul-mouthed rhetoric emanating from the xenophobes.

“And what’s with those fuckin’ Canadians…?!” President said. “Those raghead terrorists actually entered the good old US of A through Canada.” (He actually said good old US of A!)

“What the fuck…?! They better decide who’s side they’re on. They’re either with us or against us!” he said. With this exclamation, I closed my book.

By this time he had been spouting off for a good twenty minutes about how terrorism wouldn’t prevail in America, that American’s were stronger than that. They’d overcome any insurrection from within or without. How dare those bastard terrorists hijack American planes made from American metal with American labor, he had said (note the American spelling of ‘labour’). If they wanted to kill thousands of Americans by ‘kamikazi-ing’ into the World Trade Center, he said, we’d march arm-in-arm straight into Baghdad and kill ‘em all. But now, instead of being part of the ‘coalition force’ in this ‘war against terrorism’ facing this ‘axis of evil’, it was somehow Canada’s fault in the first place.

Turning to my right, I caught President’s gaze and prepared to speak. He looked at me and said, “Whadda you think…?” It surprised me that he actually was soliciting someone else’s opinion, so I decided then and there that I would make him sorry he ever did. Realizing I may have sounded like a Molson beer commercial to any other Canadians who might have paid attention, I prepared to dive into the deep end of the pool.

“First of all,” I said, “I am Canadian. I believe I’m well educated and well read and I get my news and information from several sources, not just CNN. Have either of you ever travelled through Canada? Come back to the good old US of A through Canadian Customs?” I asked.

“Of course,” President said. “I’m from Maine and my buddy here’s from Chicago.”

“Then surely you must realize that when you enter the United States from Canada you go through AMERICAN immigration,” I said, “not Canada Customs. It’s the jurisdiction, policy and responsibility of American authorities to ascertain the legality of anyone entering the United States from Canada - not the other way around.” I think I had their attention now.

“When Colin Powell stood before CNN’s cameras and said, LIVE to the world, that the Canadian government had better take a close look at their border situation because this ‘event’ might have been prevented if Canadians had been more alert, he demonstrated complete and utter ignorance of border policy and American security measures… commensurate with other so-called Secretaries of State, I hasten to add. Not to mention the fact that he looked pretty fuckin’ stupid in trying to pass the ‘sixty-five cent buck’ by suggesting that we were somehow all complicit in the terror!”

They had no idea what I was talking about. They just stared at me. So I continued.

“Are you aware,” I asked, “that it was an Italian diplomat — an ITALIAN DIPLOMAT — who corrected these comments by Secretary Powell, not a Canadian? How is it that a foreign official half a world away is more acquainted with U.S./Canada border policy than the Secretary of State? You can bet that our Prime Minister Chretien set the record straight when he met George W. a few days later. But isn’t it surprising that the so-called ‘retraction’ — sorry, correction — didn’t make half the news the original policy blunder did. No, not really a surprise at all,” I said. “Don’t bother looking within for the answers, oh no - that wouldn’t make any sense at all, would it? Don’t investigate the ‘intelligence’ blunders that lead to this debacle in the first place. And whatever you do, don’t bother reflecting on the motives of a people who are sick and tired of decades of cultural, political and commercial abuse suffered at the hands of American-lead initiatives such as globalization - that wouldn’t make any sense either.” I was on a roll.

“Do you actually expect anyone to believe that the ‘events’ of 9/11 weren’t the direct result of American foreign policy…?!”, I asked rhetorically.

As I paused for a breath, President jumped in.

“With all your anti-U.S. talk about foreign policy,” he said, “do you even know what the number one American export is…?”

I was now in danger of going on a full-tilt, uncontrollable rant. Should I reel it in a tad, I thought? Nah!

“Yes,” I said, going for the jugular, “- arrogance!”

There was a pause, punctuated by a ‘hum’ from those witnessing this… this… I have no idea what it was. So I continued.

“You may not like it, you may not even want to accept it, but flying fuel-laden jet planes into downtown high-rise Manhattan during a morning weekday rush hour was the most eloquent exclamation point possible to the question, ‘What is the global effect of American foreign policy?’ Period!”

Another pause.

President looked at Chicago. Chicago looked at me. He looked at me as if I were one of his preppie ‘maggots’ who’d missed a requisite push-up and then puked on his regulation boots. President looked back at me. The fuse — what was left of it — was short. He chose his words carefully - credit where credit is due.

“You’re upset,” President said, “I get that. But what you have to understand is this: America is America - there’s no other country like it. And America will always prevail.” He leaned forward for effect. “Period!” Chicago smiled a thin smile.

I couldn’t argue with him. It was time to throw in the towel. But maybe one last punch. A sucker punch. Perhaps it was all that Christopher Hitchens I’d been digesting.

“You’re absolutely right,” I said. “America will always prevail. Because America is the only country in the world that believes that America is the only country in the world.”

Now, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to say the two of them folded like cheap lawn furniture and skulked away. Didn’t happen. For a minute there I thought they were actually going to agree with my last statement, but that didn’t happen either. We both knew neither of us had won the argument nor changed the others mind, but the argument was duly heard and legally witnessed by those present.

The rain had stopped, the skies had cleared and the sun was in the process of hitting it’s daily mark, getting ready for its close-up. Sunsets in Fiji were, after all, one of the most awe-inspiring sights in the southern hemisphere, verified by the many cameras pointed west at that moment.

After an awkward pause, the DMZ that was the bar returned to normal and conversation went back to tales of the huge tuna that got away (“It was how big…?”) and the sights to be seen on the other side of the island (“It’s only a short walk, really.”)

Veni, Vidi, Venti - I came, I saw, I yelled. And although I hadn’t dispatched my opponents with verbal fencing worthy of Disraeli or Vidal or even Dorothy Parker (with or without her ‘vicious circle’), it was strange how I wasn’t allowed to pay for another beer at the “250” bar for the duration of my stay. My money wasn’t good here anymore, apparently.