Suva May 22 Day 1 Fiji Janet Like a possum stunned by car headlights I almost didn't know which way to turn.
The city a garish rainbow, red signs, purple, yellow, women in bright pink saris, Fijians in loud floral shirts. Signs, signs, Digicell, Vodaphone, Coca-Cola, Curry Eat Here. Every second shop had loud music blaring into the street, one shop shrill Indian tunes, next place western top of the pops, then lilting Fijian melodies, punctuated by a cacophony of car horns. After two weeks of various shades of blue and grey and the only noise the swishing of the ocean around Navire's hull, being in downtown Suva was like tripping on acid.
*** It was glorious to wake up that first full day in port, not be shaken awake by a crew mate in the dead of night, and having to climb into the cockpit, jostled by stormy black seas, but slowly coming to, the day gently seeping in. Just for a moment anyway.
Chaos reigned in the main cabin. We'd cleared the V berth of detritus stored on passage to use our double bed. Now provisions were strewn around the boat, piles of salty sailing kit threatening to grow mildew, and a day's dishes littered the galley.
That first day we were on a military mission. Shopping lists, two weeks rubbish, dirty laundry, fuel and water jerry cans to fill, and officialdom to satisfy. We only had one day in town before we headed off for a few days rest and recreation at a nearby anchorage to give Piet some tropical time before he flew south again.
Everybody wanted a form filled in and had their hand in our pockets. Up the hill from central Suva we entered the first building of many in this official mission.
Ground floor - 'not this office, go to 4th floor, not here, wait here, ah yes, go around the corner and pay, go to 2nd floor,' each time we were taken through a warren of office cubicles, through the staff cafeteria, the cloakroom. We'd find the right person, she signs, 'now go to immigration,' the well dressed official pointed to a building on a map, on the other side of town. We walked back down cluttered chaotic streets to the city centre.
An hour later we sat in a Hare Krishna cafe picking at a curry, dazed, trying to sort out our phones after visiting the Vodaphone shop. They'd made an easy task incomprehensible. My sleep-deprived brain reeled and could barely absorb the simple instructions the staff gave us. The youthful staff probably had us down as untech savvy geriatrics.
Communication systems semi-sorted the next most urgent tasks were applying for our cruising permit, and harbour clearance. We weren't allowed out of the Suva without these bits of paper. It was now Friday afternoon, and I hadn't even got near the market yet.
Note to self. When arriving in port, 1. Make a list of what needs to be done, 2.
Estimate how long it takes to do, 3. Triple the estimate. Did the first two, but failed on point 3. And then point 4, locate everything on a map first and don't take anybody's assurance that everything is in the same building.
*** Cruising permit place on one side of town, harbour clearance on the other. As we plodded wearily along the edge of the harbour the Grand Pacific Hotel, its huge white portals a bastion of colonialism, beckoned us, lured us in with the prospect of air conditioning and cold beers. Two minutes later we parked our weary bodies in white cane chairs, poolside, with a waiter loitering, ready for our order.
We loved the hotel's luxury and Europeaness. Beer was cheap, internet was free, clearance was relegated to the morrow.
Got 109 emails and all your comments. It feels wonderful that some of you followed right along with our journey *** You'd think we'd know better than to rush straight into provisioning, water, fuel, phones that we could do without for another week, having done the island cruising thing once before. But no, seduced by the trappings of civilization, we rushed on. Anchored next door was a boat called Midnight Sun, its crew John and Wendy, relentlessly cheerful friendly Australians, with 20 years sailing the Pacific under their belts. They knew the drill.
"There's no rush," Wendy often said when they came by. They just anchored and waited, looking ever so relaxed. Even sunbathed on deck. How could this be? I was still trying to clean a month's worth of grime from Navire's innards, and instill some semblance of order aboard. But I watch and learn from them.
Alas we paid the price for our haste. David has written of our ill health, UTI and diarrhea. I continued the trend, falling over at the yacht club and spraining my thumb badly, then laid low with a cold for a week, and all the while suffering the debilitating post-passage tiredness. Is there a message in all this? Wendy would say so.
We belatedly learned from several other experienced cruisers that we need to allow several weeks, not days, but weeks, to recover fully from the demands of passage. Note to self....
***

Music In The Park January 20, 2015 I'm calling this a retrospective as David was a little late posting it David On Barrier Radio Janet caught a brief ad “Music in The Park at Okiwi. Bring your own instruments.” This sounded like us. What clinched it was Loma, from whom we had hired a car, who was intending to go and offered us a lift.
Loma, large as life and well into party mode, roared into the Port Fitzroy parking lot not much more than an hour late. Janet and I and our instruments piled in.
We soon learned that Loma is one of eleven. She has six of her own, eighteen grandchildren and a couple of great-grandchildren. She looked about sixty, if that. But not much about her said Maori. She appeared bottle blond, light skinned, a little ditsy at first meeting, voluble, irreverent and great fun to be with.
We took to her immediately. In describing her lack of sea legs she quipped, “Before I’ll take the ferry to Auckland it’s got to be calm enough for me to apply lipstick in my reflection.” She turned out to be foundation tangatawhenua.
The length of time your family have been on the island, as elsewhere, is defining, third and fourth generation conferring unparalleled status. "We moved back to the island about four years ago," Loma said as she negotiated the narrow, winding road to Okiwi. "But we've been here more than seven hundred. Weíre Ngatiwai. Just the one iwi which makes things simple although there’s two hapu." Thatís about thirty generations of continuous occupation.
“I’m not that familiar with my tikanga,” Loma confessed, a little wistfully. “Some of my grandkids who have grown up in kohanga come and speak to me and I have no idea what theyíre saying," she laughed. Sheís tried learning. “It goes in and then goes out. But I've enrolled again.” Loma eased the car along a near invisible track, overhung with trees that momentarily blocked most of the sunlight. Once inside, the space opened out to reveal a cosy glade, a small grassy clearing enclosed by native bush thick with ferns and nikau palms. There were people gathered on rugs under a huge spreading Puriri tree and others standing around barbeques and chili bins of beer. As the sun slid across the sky small groups moved to occupy other patches of shade. A stage had been set up, complete with amps, mikes, speakers, even a fold-back speaker so that the musicians could hear themselves.
Loma found us a space under the Puriri and settled into her chair where she held court with family and friends all afternoon. She had a constant flow of grandchildren making requests and waiting on her. It slowly became clear that she is a much revered kuia, related, one way or another, to every Maori on the island, many of whom were at the park. There was always much banter and laughter emanating from around her spot.
It was an intimate group of no more than forty with people coming and going.
We felt we had gate crashed a large family gathering but, attached to Loma’s coat tails, we were soon absorbed into the fold.
Elaine, a diminutive copper-haired woman with an arresting, effortless, Aretha Franklin voice, played MC. She provided backing vocals and took the stage herself from time to time, supported by her husband Opo, on guitar. Remarkably she and Opo live on remote, exposed Mahuki, the outermost of the aptly named Broken Islands. They are the unofficial custodians of the island’s gannet colony.
A dozen or so musicians, including the two of us, performed solo or in varying combinations. Elaine joined us during our second set which was a treat. There were several performers who would have been well received on much larger stages, especially a trio of gorgeous, young sisters from one of the two Katherine Bay marae. One guitar, three voices, sublime harmony. And Elaine could rival any diva.
Janet and I rowed back to the boat in the lengthening shadows, warmed through with music, people, food, beer and sun and with a pocketful of invitations in the anchorage and across the island.