Falling Down Mountains in Fiji (1 of 3)

I’ve noticed that when I travel, I tend to get hurt.

Normally I’m a fairly safe, fairly sane person, thinking things through before I stick my neck out, but all that goes out the window when I step off the plane. Maybe it’s because of the seeming lack of boundaries, traveling somewhere that’s not home. Or maybe it’s because it’s what’s expected, to travel abroad and have thrilling adventures; I really don’t know. What I do know is that it’s almost a law of nature that I get myself injured an average of two times per trip. So, on a recent trip to Fiji, when I stupidly got myself bounced off a very sharp coral reef (and survived, thankfully), I merely chalked it up on the scoreboard: one down, one to go.

And true to form, Bad Moment #2 did arise, as it always does, very unexpectedly. I spent a few days in Levuka, Fiji’s colonial-era capitol, amongst the picturesque clapboard houses, palm trees, and Wild West storefronts, and while it was beautiful (and a nice change from the selling frenzy of the current capitol, Suva, an island over), I started itching to get moving. I only had a handful of days left until I had to head home, and there was still so much to see. I bought a ticket for the afternoon flight out from Bureta, on the other side of the island, to Nausori, just north of Suva, and settled down to wait.

While waiting, I glanced through one of the several guidebooks I’d picked up, just to see if there was anything else interesting I could see, to kill time before my flight. I can’t for the life of me find it now, but one book mentioned a trail up to The Peak, a steep-sided tooth jutting up through the mist behind The Royal Hotel and Levuka town, as “an easy one-hour afternoon hike.” I eyed the mountain from Beach Street, below – it didn’t look very big, really, and would be a heck of a view of the island. The rain had stopped for the moment, so why not do a bit more exploring?

The goal locked in my mind, I visited the office of the local tour operator, Ovalau Tours and Transport, to see if they knew anyone who could take me up there. Land rights in Fiji are a very serious matter, as demonstrated by the recent political turmoil, and it’s considered very impolite to wander off the established tourist track without permission or a guide. Almost all of the land in Fiji is owned by someone, and the land all around Levuka was the property of the Fijian villagers, so I needed a local guide to show me the way.

However, when I asked at the office about going up to The Peak, the sunburned young European behind the computer shook his head.

“That’s a rough hike, mate,” he warned. “I did it once, and I almost fell off the mountain. It’s very steep at points, and with all the rain lately, you have to be especially careful.”

I said that I’d been told it was a quick, easy hike, and he laughed.

“Yes, so had I.”

When I persisted, he referred me to the manager, who looked equally perplexed. She told me that no, they did not run tours to The Peak, but that I could probably get one of the village kids to take me for a few dollars.

“Village kids?” I thought, “So much for the arduous hike.”

I followed the tour operator’s directions, taking the path into the hills towards the Levuka Public School, and corralled a young boy on his way down to the main road. When I asked if he could take me to The Peak, or if he knew anybody who could, he gave me a weird look.

“You want to go to The Peak?” he asked.

I nodded, and he pondered it for a moment, then shrugged.
“Okay, I can take you.”

George near village spring, Levuka

His name was George, and as we headed up the path, I gently prodded him into talking. He told me that he had often taken people up the mountain in the past, mostly British tourists, but that it had been quite a while. The Peak was where all the village children played when they were young, learning their way around the forests of Ovalau. He had outgrown that, though, being himself the ripe old age of fourteen, and now spent most of his time at school in Suva.

We walked down past the stream-fed pool where the villagers swam on hot days, and George confessed to me that he hated Fiji, and wanted more than anything to go live with his cousins in Australia. His mother and father forbade it, however, at least until he was older, so for now he was stuck here. I told him that I thought his home was utterly beautiful, and he turned and looked at me as if I were a slow child.

“America is very beautiful, too,” he said, then shook his head and walked on.

Read Part 2