Getting Stoned With Savages - J. Maarten Troost [91]
It occurred to me, as I made my arrangements for the fourteen-hour ferry voyage, that my aversion to flying on small aircraft had reached pathological proportions. Nevertheless, if there was a way to get to where I wanted to go without having to leave the Earth’s surface, then I would choose that rather than fly. Even a raft would do.
“And how old is the boat?” I asked the ticket agent. I had seen some of the ferries that plied the waters of Fiji, shepherding people to the outer islands.
“Only nine years old,” she said brightly.
As I soon discovered, she meant that it had been in Fiji for only nine years. The Spirit of Fiji was at least forty years old. “Be there at 10 A.M. sharp,” the ticket agent had told me. The morning of our departure, I boarded the ship in industrial Walu Bay, and as I walked across the steel deck I noticed that the ship was deeply corroded. The paint peeled. Mechanics emerged from below deck carrying rusty machine parts, which they studied with considerable interest. Belching trucks rumbled aboard.
I handed my ticket to someone I presumed was a ship employee; no one was wearing a uniform. “First class,” he said. He took a stamp, dipped it in ink, and stamped my forearm. FIRST CLASS, it said. This pleased me enormously. It was my first time traveling anywhere first class, and the stamp on my arm made it seem extra special. First class entitled me to a berth in a four-bunk cabin, an indulgence that cost $10 more than a standard fare. The lower classes, those not graced with stamps on their arms, were consigned to the deck. I found my cabin, deposited my backpack, and read the notice informing me that breakfast would be served between eight and nine, lunch from noon to one, tea from four to five, and dinner between seven and eight. Very civilized, I thought. As far as I could tell, I was the only passenger with a first-class stamp.
I spent a few minutes getting lost deep within the bowels of the boat. There were signs on the walls, but alas, they were in Greek. There was even a map of the Greek Isles. Eventually, I emerged on the upper deck and mingled among the commoners. Most of the passengers had settled on the benches and were busy eating their lunches. Soon the water below was marked with a confetti of plastic bags and wrappers.
We were due to leave imminently, and I found a perch from which to watch the event. Two hours later, I was still there, watching the mechanics hammer away at a greasy machine part. The boat hadn’t moved. I should have known, of course. Even after nearly four years in the South Pacific, I still maintained an optimistic faith in schedules. But nothing leaves on time in the South Pacific, and when the Spirit of Fiji finally departed, three hours behind schedule, I realized that this would be a very long day, and suddenly I understood the appeal of flying.
The ship glided through the break in the reef, near a Chinese fishing boat that had missed the entrance and lay hull up on the reef shelf. Beyond the reef, there was a swell running, and the flat-bottomed ship rolled with each wave. We were traveling at approximately two miles per hour. I could swim faster, I thought. We passed the headlands of Viti Levu and threaded our way through the Lomaiviti archipelago toward Koro Island. In the distance, I could see the hazy contours of Wakaya Island, the destination of choice for movie stars and millionaires. The morning newspaper had informed us that Tom Cruise was presently frolicking on its beaches. I felt a camaraderie with Tom. We both traveled first class.
We moved over deep water, a wine-dark blue dappled by the sun. Behind us was the cragged eastern shore of Viti Levu. In the distance, the offshore islands reflected an alluring languor. A frigate bird swept low above the waves of the Koro Sea. If there was a more enchanting scene anywhere in the world, I could not imagine it. In gloomy Suva, with its fetid air and belching buses, paradise was a punch