Navua River & lost souls in Suva

I go on my first “tourist” tour. A truck picks me up in the morning and we head west again on Kings Road. Our destination is the Navua River near Pacific Harbour. Another 15 Germans arrive on a bus from the west. I don’t feel like speaking German at all. The driver does me a favour and introduces me as Francis from England. I leave out my title and surname, as Sir and Drake would be a bit over the top.

A motorised banana boat takes us a good hour from the mouth of the Navua River inland. The mountains get higher and higher while it rains continuously. Despite it being 25 degrees, the wind would make it quite cold, so for the first time I’m glad of my rain jacket.

The engine fails in a rapid. The boat drifts backwards, turns over, water pours over us. Then the captain manages to restart the engine. Anything unplanned is refreshing. The almost vertical rainforest mountains to the left and right are divided by large waterfalls every few hundred metres. Clouds of mist cling to the slopes.

On a small island in the river, the rubber dinghies are unpacked for rafting. After a leisurely half hour over small rapids downstream, we have lunch at a waterfall before continuing on. Rafting is something else. This is a leisurely boat trip, and every now and then you even have to paddle to avoid obstacles. And that’s about it.

A cool dip in the current, which can reach speeds of up to 20 kilometres per hour. Back into the banana boat and back to the estuary. The tour was 6 hours long and beautiful, but at €50, it was absolutely insane by Fiji standards. The truck takes us back to Raintree Lodge. I grin as the Germans say goodbye to me with “Good bye”.

At Raintree Lodge, two full people are sitting in front of six empty 0.75 beer bottles. Guests, at least. I move with them to Suva. Last night in Sodom. The Yank is an exposed marriage fraudster. The Indian is…hm…just drunk as an Indian. On the way down, he asks me five times how long I’ve been here and where I’m travelling to, tells me 13 times that he also works for the Holiday Inn and drones on dozens of times that we’re planning to drink. “If you go to Taxi in Suva and tell driver where to go, he will drop you there.” Aha. Sweet.

After almost an hour, I finally find a restaurant that honours my traveller’s cheque. The Indian food is expensive but also very good. The Indian wants to keep buying us beer, even though we’ve just ordered. I end up paying for almost everything. The marriage swindler is broke, and of course the Indian’s food is on me too.

On the street, the Indian first tries to sell us weed, then coke and finally women. He tries it a few times, speaks directly to women on Main Street who definitely look different from the ones in front of the shacks. The renunciation is easy. He waves a $2000 bundle of banknotes. In Fiji, people build a whole house for that. “How did you earn the money?” “I shaved my arse”.

I’m also allowed to pay for the taxi upstairs. The Indian pisses behind the reception desk and is removed from the property in a small commotion. Good light falls on his companions. As soon as he’s gone, the marriage cheat crosses him and justifies himself. He doesn’t even know his best friend. Weird world, lost souls Suva.

The next morning I won’t be able to get the money back from the con man. I’m going to ask him hard to withdraw money from his credit card at the office. It won’t give anything. I will inspect his wallet. Nothing. Afterwards I will only regret one thing: that he will still be able to say “Thank you” after I have said goodbye with a blow to his solar plexus. Time to move on.