My wife, one son
(my other son Tucker was indisposed) and I went on a nature hike today guided
by a young Fijian they call Moses. His real name is Mosese. All the resort
workers shorten their names to more European monikers for the sake of the
tourists. We are in Fiji of the South
Pacific on a vacation of sorts.
An open motorboat ferried us across the deep blue lagoon.
After careful maneuvering through sandbars in the shallows the boat scrunched
to a halt on the coral sand shore. The coxswain waved a grinning goodbye as we
pushed him off. Someone would come back “in a while.” I couldn’t help but
wonder if that was “Fiji time” which is a tongue in cheek way of implying a
certain relaxed flexibility.
After being
informed that the island had been inhabited until the early 1800’s by way of a
wonderful bit of history and story telling by Moses we embarked into the
jungle. My son Corson, with his surgically reconstructed left leg, strode
carefully down the shaded and uneven path with his ornate wooden cane (a gift and story of its own)
Each ten to twenty
feet or so Moses would stop and pull a leaf or point out a fruit or flower.
He’d softly explain the medicinal uses and totem qualities of each. His
grandmother had been a healer. She knew all the plants and their uses. She
could direct young Moses (now a father) through the forest to the exact
location of whatever plant or tree she desired. He shared his amazement at her
ability to place him on the spot. He’d
retrieve the leaf, berry or bark for her to grind or manipulate in order to
form the medicine. He laughed a comical, shrill gurgle like a bird.
The day before he
had shown us how to build a “fish house.” This is part of a conservation
project to rebuild the reef. My sons, Moses and I had sat in the sand mixing
concrete in five gallon buckets to use as mortar of sorts in order to build an
igloo of broken coral and shells while their Mother and Lata (another story)
searched for shells. He had guided each of us patiently while regaling with
stories and describing his life and work.
When we finished the
“house” he showed us a shed where he kept a sea kayak. It was like being shown
a secret hiding place. Moses explained that he’d place the heavy igloos of
concrete and shells onto the kayak and walk them out into the water 150 to 200
yards and place them there. When you finished your house they gave you the GPS
coordinates and the sequential number of that house so you could always track
it on a computer.
Eventually we
reached the far side of the island. As the trail opened out onto a secluded
beach I gazed into the vast ocean that evolved from shallow turquoise to deep
blue. A sudden breeze dried the sweat
on my brow, neck and chest. Moses had cut a papaya from a tree with the rusty
machete he carried slung over his shoulder on a rope. Sitting cross-legged in
the sand he fashioned a sliver of knife from a piece of the same papaya tree
that had yielded the fruit. He explained that he did not want to contaminate
the fruit with the rusty blade.
As we chatted I
watched him precisely, slowly, slice the papaya into pieces. He’d peer out
across the water and sky with his eyes shaded by the bill of a worn and faded
blue ball cap as if he could see somewhere beyond this world. Then he’d grin as
he handed each of us a piece of the juicy, sweet, orange-yellow manna of a
hiker’s heaven. We were comfortable and sustained. Eventually, we departed for
the meeting place around the point and over the crest to our left.
My son had
struggled with fatigue on the walk. He had endured a year of intense
chemotherapy a while back. Concern rose as we crossed huge driftwood jams the
sea had deposited on the inlet side of the island. He looked across at me and
gave thumbs up in response to my questioning gaze. Of course he’d respond the
same even if he were about to fall out on the ground.
Motoring back to
the mainland. I reveled in gratitude for nature and the peace of having my son
and wife in the boat safe and resting. Moses sat reflective and grinning in the
bow. I knew he had a baby coming. He’d
told us on the beach. They wanted to name him Ebenezer, “from the book of
Samuel.”
I also knew that he
had been two units from a marine biology degree and ran out of money and had to
go to work. It had been difficult to find. The resort had not had a position so
he’d volunteered for two and a half years at the marine center there until they
had been able to give him a job. That had been two years before. We’d
discovered all this while inquiring as he had guided us through the
construction of the fish house.
As far as I could
see, in comparison to America, these folk live a meager existence. They come to
this resort called “Shangri-La” each day. They work serving and cleaning,
teaching and guiding, entertaining and giving of themselves in such a natural
way that you feel as if you have known them forever.
Then they return to
their villages of cinderblock, tin and thatch; windows always open, few screens,
eating their simple diet, living their simple lives, knowing there is opulence
yet clearly loving their lives and family and ancient way of life.
The resort jobs must
be a godsend and I would imagine highly prized. Shangri-La has several resorts
in the Pacific. Each of them works to sustain and serve the people and
environment where they are located. Here they have built schools, initiated
myriad environmental programs, aided families and more. They treated us with
such grace and generosity that we are forever humbled and grateful.
We leave here
tomorrow. This trip was granted my son by the “Make a Wish” foundation. They
grant wishes to children that suffer from life threatening diseases. We’ll
leave these childlike, welcoming people behind for our competitive, material
contest of a world and have only been a ripple on the sea of their lives.
Lord willing,
Moses’ child will be born and Moses will teach Ebenezer the plants that are
medicine and life’s blood to these people of earth and sea. Lord willing,
another son will walk with his mother and father across this island of time
into the love of the world that awaits him.
“Bula,” all ye angels of life. Peace, love and blessings to
each and every one of you in far away “Shangri-la.”
You are in our
hearts … forever.
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