A Pat on the Back

by Zack Holmes (New Zealand)

A leap into the unknown Fiji

I was staying at a fancy resort on the western side of the island, complete with fancy pools, fancy food, and fancy people swanning about in boardshorts and bikinis. It was a veritable paradise of comfort and relaxation, and whilst I had enjoyed my stay I was beginning to feel a creeping desire to explore before I was sent on my way with a freshly stamped passport. Walking the quiet streets of Denarau, air still heavy with damp from the night’s humidity (largely unnoticed thanks to the perpetual hotel air conditioning) and painted by streaks of dawn light, I stopped by a roadside stall opened early by its vendor. “Bula vinaka! Have you got any coffee?”, I asked the fellow, and he presented a worn thermos, filling a styrene cup. I paid the guy, thanked him and moved on, my cheap jandals slapping loudly with every stride. Bonnie was still asleep. We’d been up late swimming and drinking with friends, and no doubt irritating the other guests with a game of catch in one of the pools. I hadn’t slept well, sunburn and dehydration snatching restful slumber like a couple of bullies. I’d catch up on that later, for now I was distracted by a large hand painted sign about fifty metres from where I was standing, “MOTORCYCLE HIRE. $30/HR.” The shack just beyond was filled with gleaming two-wheeled vehicles in every colour, and as I approached, a boy of around twelve noticed me and called out to his mother and father in the back. I think one of them shook my hand (I suppose I must have looked interested) and the next thing I knew they were running me through the sales pitch and asking me to sit on a variety of bikes to see what I liked. They were very enthusiastic and clearly excited for such an early visitor, but I regretfully informed them I had left most of my cash back in the room and would have to return later. Not to be dissuaded, the woman asked me where I was staying, and when I answered she simply waved her hand like it was nothing but the smallest inconvenience—I could pay them later. Upon reflection I guessed they were not so much trusting as sure they could track me down if necessary. Surprised, I thanked her and asked whether they had anything without gears to shift or a clutch to worry about. She grinned at her husband who ducked out of sight and reemerged wheeling an ancient-looking moped with a 70cc engine. “This one’s easy,” he said, “pull the handle like this (he showed me the motion) and it will go. Very fast.” Within minutes I was speeding along a dusty gravel track through the middle of the golf course across the road from the hire place, helmetless and heart pounding with only a pair of knock-off Ray Bans separating my eyes from the wind. There had been no mention of insurance or safety, only a fleeting glance at my Kiwi driver’s licence and a pat on the back, “I guess that’s how they do it here” I figured. As I continued along this dirt half-road with the heat of the day already bearing down upon me, I started to daydream about one of those generic coming-of-age films where the kid goes out on his own and maybe rides a bicycle through the woods or rescues a wild animal from a trap or some bullshit like that, and how that moment changes them and fills them with a sense of purpose. I emerged from this daze when the greenskeeper shouted at me to get off his course; it was apparently private property and he didn’t appear pleased. As I made my way onward to the outskirts of Denarau Island and eventually beyond – stopping only to take a photo of the rusty scooter against the backdrop of an overgrown parking lot or to clear grit from my barely shielded eyes – I realised I felt as content as I ever had, slightly outside my comfort zone but enjoying the thrill of adventure. Perhaps I would even write about it someday.