It’s been about a half of a year since that day. Over the course of the past six months, I have attended many women’s group meetings, province conferences, and ministry visits. Like clockwork, the same issue would occur. Though, after several introductions performed for me, it stopped being annoying. I came up with an explanation that made sense to me, and I defined my emotions thoroughly enough to dull any antipathy that might arise. What was once a pet peeve abated to an acquiesced compliance. With time, it became as normal as a sunrise - just another Fijian cultural quirk. 

That was, until recently, when I came to see the situation completely upside-down. 

What if I had been engaged in the same exact behavior that I had been lambasting in my head this entire time? What if I, myself, have been both the interested Stranger and the explanatory Counterpart? And, what if you too are guilty of doing these same things? This wasn’t a Fijian cultural idiosyncrasy that I was observing; I wasn’t subverting my concept of an introduction. This has been the inclination of all humans.

The revelation dawned on me when I came across a depiction of Fiji in a 90’s travel memoir. Though, rather than me reading it myself, it was a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer who shared the passage with me during my visit to his village for his birthday, accompanied by another volunteer. Following a lively grog session with a Fijian family next to his house, where the effects of the drink left us pleasantly numbed and in an intoxicated haze, we stumbled up the hill leading to his home. In the final hours of the night, surrounded by the soft glow of a candle, he casually pulled out a book and quipped, "You guys want a bedtime story?" Seated against the wall, he invited us to join him on the floor, atop an extra mattress and a yoga mat - our makeshift beds for the night. "I'm curious to hear your thoughts on this." 

He proceeded to read a passage from Paul Theroux's Happy Isles of Oceania, a book that had circulated among the volunteers and had recently landed in my friend's hands. What he read was honest and impudent in the way typical of someone who answered to nobody. Whatever truth there was in his introduction of Fiji was betrayed by his lack of tact: “Fiji is like the world you thought you left behind - full of political perversity, racial fear, economic woes, and Australian tourists looking for inexpensive salad bowls (though why anyone would think a race of Queequeegs, proud of their cannibal past, might excel at making salad bowls is not only a cultural mystery, but proof that tourists will believe almost anything as long as they are comfortable).” I laughed out of shock at that opening line. Even if it didn’t reflect my pleasant experience living in Fiji for the past year, it characterized its author well - a vagabond, more familiar with macro-level problems, clearly having no patience to learn or appreciate the lifestyle of everyday Fijians. The perspective was from that of a traveler passing through, whose point of view was tinted with the hue of his values and judgements. He is knowledgeable of only his own insular, however-worldly experience, not on the people he is commenting on.  

And, as my friend read on, his incendiary critique continued, scorching everyone on the island as if it was written by a crazed pyromaniac. Theroux described Fijian communities as “ugly villages that looked like prefab chicken houses,” labeled Native Fijian’s interest in the then on-going Gulf War as “a simpleminded fascination in the spectacle [of violence],” and their religious beliefs as anachronistic - “stuck in the 19th century” Despite his less than flattering, generalized description of Fiji’s inhabitants, my sympathy aligned more with them than with the author.

I lamented for the Fijians of old, a vilified target of Theroux and others, who were once practitioners of traditions and beliefs accepted in their time. The “cannibals,” whose stories now lie buried and untold, were victims of happenstance, finding themselves on the wrong side of luck when white foreigners arrived, wielding guns and crosses. The intricate tapestry of their beliefs, woven over generations, was abruptly superseded and overshadowed by an imposed, foreign narrative. This narrative extends beyond Christianity, which grew to become a unique sect with its distinctly Fijian flavor, shaping not just religious practices but also the moral judgments applied by us and modern Fijians. For the past two centuries and likely into the future, those who carried the culture I've grown to love are universally and arbitrarily labeled as uncivilized savages, disregarding the context in which they lived. A process continued even today, the “cannibal’s” descendents are being judged for their lifestyle and behavior by the opinions of outsiders like Paul Theroux, whose litigations pull precedents from a different world.

We had a brief discussion about the book, and then decided to go to bed. The night was long, and my sleep, or lack thereof, mirrored the duplicitous nature of grog-induced slumber. After an evening of indulging in yaqona, the foggy, tired feeling that clouded my thoughts persisted even in the realm of sleep. There was no REM for a groggy sleeper—no dreams, no rest, just a haunting lack of consciousness. At 5 AM, I was awakened by an angry liver and a growling stomach - my body was throwing a temper tantrum in protest. Yet, as I reflected, the discomfort seemed a small price to pay for the night of laughter shared with a friend I hadn't seen in months and his Fijian neighbors. Swapping stories with him and one of his favorite Fijian families provided a meaningful intercultural experience, even if it came with the consequence of an unrestful sleep.

Yaqona wasn't the cleanest business, nor did it purport to be. In a Fijian village, grog is casually prepared by hand-mixing pounded yaqona roots with water in a communal bowl, creating a muddy concoction for shared consumption during social gatherings, with each present taking what were essentially double-shot glass gulps out of shaved coconut shells (bilos) that were shared with the entire group. Sicknesses like mine that morning felt inevitable, not only because most organs of the body revolt against grog, but also because the entire process is a prime avenue of germs of all types to enter the body. All you could do was hope - hope that the mixer had washed his hand after using the bathroom, that the water was adequately boiled, and that your drinking buddy’s cough just came from the last puff from his cigarette. Some suggested bringing your own bilo for a sense of control, but amidst numerous tripwires in the process, it seemed superfluous. Besides, when I did bring a bilo, my decision wasn't primarily for health; it was a status symbol. I only saw those who sat at the head of table, people deemed important, with their own bilos. I brought a bilo to win favor with the old men, not as a precautionary measure, because at the end of the day I knew what was going to happen. My body’s reaction was entirely predictable, and like an experienced parent, I responded to its fit with a patient tolerance. 

The mental torpor from a grog hangover can feel debilitating. Through the filter of lethargy, the volume of the inner monologue is turned down, leaving a morass of subdued, meandering  thoughts to take over. Concentration takes extra effort, and daydreaming becomes the default state of mind. As I hopped on my bus home from my friend’s village, I reflected on how this was the Fiji that Theorux was missing, because even if I felt physically and mentally tired from partaking in this national form of recreation, I regretted nothing. I enjoyed my time drinking yaqona, and, reflecting upon this last year, I was grateful I took the time to learn and appreciate the Fijian lifestyle.

And yet, these sentiments were not the ones conveyed to Theroux's readers. If one were to just know of the Fiji from Happy Isles, they would think of Fijians as a “poor,” “territorial,” and “bigoted” people that Theroux vivified in his book, and I doubt they would want to be labeled as such. In my experience, the people are nothing but hospitable, friendly, and jovial; the lifestyle is easygoing and comfortable; and the kindness I have been shown by complete strangers has rivaled the consideration of close friends back home. Unfortunately, Theroux didn’t have this same experience, or at least didn’t note it. The average reader, likely from a Western country thousands of miles away, will probably have minimal experience with Fiji and would know nothing better than what he wrote. His introduction, and subsequent description, doesn't align with the image that Fijian people want for themselves, nor is it how I believe the Fijian people see themselves.

Even in my grog-laden stupor, my mind casually danced around these ideas. One of my sluggish neurons must have shot off in a wrong direction, because I made an odd connection to the situation which bothered me months ago. I felt Theroux’s book and the Stranger’s introduction were analogous; they were the same narrative told from different perspectives. 

Recall the characters casted: a Stranger, a Neighbor, and an Object - myself. The Stranger, although seemingly uninterested in engaging with the Object, is actually restricted by her unfamiliarity and means of communication, leaving her understandably reluctant. Still curious, she asks the Neighbor, who, on the other hand, is a source of information, ebullient to share. Her experience with the Object’s preferences, habits, and quirks makes her feel as though, and appear to be, an authority on the topic. With alacrity, she begins divulging, allowing the Neighbor to paint a picture of the Object’s character. Yet, the Object is standing on the fringes of this conversation. A phantom to the narrative being woven, their voice is being deafened, heard only through the filter of the Neighbor’s subjectivity; the Object’s intentions remain hidden, and their identity is spuriously shaped. 

And then take something like a travel memoir (but it could be any form of media, a book, a movie, a documentary, and video essay, etc.). The Audience (the Stranger) is intrigued by the places and people being written about, and so purchase the book. Although they are curious, they are mostly ignorant of the alien Culture (Object), and, unless they do further research, this book becomes their primary reference. The Audience places trust in the Author’s (Neighbor’s) account, as not only is he charming, but he also shares a common language and set of values. The Author has made contact with the Culture and relays his interactions and commentary to diagnose the pathology of the people. Veritably, this resembles a form of gossiping on a larger scale - exchanging social information. 

Meanwhile, the Culture (the Object) being discussed is estranged from their own story. They are being gossiped about right in front of them, and they can hear (or read in this case) the comments being made about them (Happy Isles, for example, was borrowed from the Peace Corps Fiji office, and Fijians work there). Just like how I felt as though I am the storyteller of my own culture, I imagine those discussed in these narratives that are reported back to other cultures likely desire agency in how they are explained, wary of oversimplified generalizations. Instead, they find themselves portrayed with a voice confined within quotation marks.

Of course, not my situation was not as egregious. Not only did I still have the ability to speak for myself, to be heard, but everything that was being said about me were positive things. I also wanted to be where I was. Since I applied to be a Peace Corps Volunteer, I quite literally signed up to meet new people. Fijians, at least at first, weren’t interested; they disliked visitors when Western explorers were first mapping the South Pacific. And even today, most are content being in their own world, with their traditions still strong, customary power structures intact, and bucolic worklife still mostly viable. I get the sense they are happy to share the details of their culture, but getting nasty comments from afar isn’t what they’re after. 

I could understand all of that previously,  and a lot of these concepts were things I learned in school, but it wasn’t until I experienced for myself how it felt to see people talk about me while I was present did I viscerally comprehend the potential harm that unfair interpretations could have. This situation has been so shocking to me because it's the first time I’ve been on the other side - where I have been the Object, the Culture whose story has been told for them..For years, I’ve been the Audience consuming the media from the Author, giving minimal thought as to what it might be like for those whose stories are being told for them. The Stranger and the Neighbor’s behavior seems justified now. Afterall, we have been doing it to Fijians since white explorers discovered the island. 

I realize now that the Stranger requesting that the Neighbor perform my introduction was a microcosm for the way Audiences engage with media concerning other groups and cultures, - including books, news, social science research, YouTube videos, TV shows… 

… and even blog posts like this one. 

(Next part >>)