The Fiji Fiasco

***Warning, written by a tired, grumpy traveler who may come off as slightly less than appreciative that she has just arrived on a tropical island...***

It was clear from the get-go that things in Fiji were not always going to go as planned. After dragging two huge suitcase, a laptop, and a carry-on through Rose Bay to the ferry and onto an airport shuttle (I know, I know, I brought it on myself, but c’mon- Six months! Multiple climates! And taxis are expensive!) I thought the hardest part was behind me. This was before I saw the line to check in snaking through what appeared to be half the terminal.

I joined the line and surrendered to an hour and a half of shifting weight from foot to flip-flopped foot, half-sitting on bags (see, large, heavy luggage is good for something!), and inching forward every time someone took the slightest step in order to maintain some sense of progress. After holding my breath during the baggage weigh-in (success!) the attendant robotically pointed to the time on my boarding pass that my plane would begin boarding. It had passed five minutes ago.


I still had customs and security to get through, with lines clogged full of the same passengers I had shared my afternoon rubbing shoulders with. By the time I made it into the duty free shopping area an attendant was bustling through calling for any final passengers to Fiji. I hustled to the gate and took my seat, cursing missing the more profitable side of currency exchange, and waited for another twenty minutes as the crew realized that the backlog had started hours ago.

After an uneventful flight on Air Pacific (except that I wasn’t impressed when they turned off the in-flight entertainment forty-five minutes before landing) I made it to Nadi International Airport in time to catch the end of a breathtaking sunset. Other than the cheerful band playing at the end of the exit corridor, the airport staff seemed overworked and tired. My immigration officer failed to mumble a single word while stamping my passport and the security screeners did nothing to facilitate bags getting stopped up through security screening.

I finally reached the exit, expecting the free shuttle from my pre-booked Grand Malenesian Hotel room to be waiting, but when I approached information the suggested hopping into a taxi, claiming it would be cheaper! I refused and moved down the line to an agent who called the hotel directly. I was stunned when she hung up the phone and confirmed that they had just told her to put me in a cab.


When I questioned reception upon arrival I was told that yes, they do have an airport shuttle van, but there was no one available to drive it today. Not in the mood for an argument, or to be labeled as a high-maintenance American, I shrugged and followed a porter carrying one of my bags. As he began climbing stairs to the second floor (no elevator!), I gave myself a mini-pep talk and refused to be disheartened.


My evening continued this way: Anywhere to grab a bite to eat? Shops in town are closed. Light bulb in the bathroom? Burnt out. Internet access? Yes, but I’m sorry, cards are sold out. I consoled myself with an early night in and the mini-blessing of an otherwise empty shared room and crossed my fingers that the shuttle scheduled to pick me up in the morning and whisk me away to Beachcomber’s Island Resort actually existed and came with a licensed driver.

Taranaki Falls

One of the best things about being surrounded by travelers is the element of spontaneity. People from around the world with different personalities and varied interests come up with adventures that you could never have dreamed up alone. It was over lunch that I decided I wanted to jump into Taranaki Falls.


Helen and I were eating in the staff room and planning to use the internet before our shifts started when Mike, a sweet young guy from England, plopped down at the table across from us. Everyone knew that he was heading home to start university in a few weeks and was trying to cram in as many activities as possible before leaving.


“What are you up to today?” we asked.


“I’m going to jump in a waterfall,” he replied matter-of-factly, “I just wish I had someone there to take my picture.”

Helen and I exchanged a quick glance. “I’ll go with you,” I volunteered, “but if you’re jumping in the water then so am I.”


“Well I’m not going to be the only loser who doesn’t jump in,” Helen chimed in.


And so, our idea was born. We each ran home to change into swimsuits and pack a bag of warm clothes to bundle up for the walk home. We met at the entrance to the Taranaki Falls walk, checked our watches and realized that there was no way we would make it back to work in time if it actually took us the allotted hour posted each way.


Refusing to accept defeat, we decided to run the downhill portions of the trail and Manhattan speed walk the rest of the way, reassuring ourselves that the time was overestimated for dawdlers. Stopping for a few pictures in between, we reached the falls in about forty-five minutes.


Since it was his original idea, Mike stripped down and went first while Helen and I stood on the rocks armed with a disposable camera. After striking a few poses he crawled out shivering but grinning. We took turns wading to the middle, standing still long enough to get a good shot, and then trying to convince the next participant through chattering teeth that it really wasn’t that cold.

After we had each taken one turn, we concluded that we couldn’t really claim to have jumped into a waterfall while we still had dry hair, so Helen and I grabbed hands, plugged our noses, and tip toed far enough out to completely dunk our heads. Not one to be outdone, Mike followed suit, splashing water overhead as he broke the surface.


Exhilarated, and possibly delirious from the cold, we started our walk back at the same fast pace that we had taken there. Even slowed slightly by a scraped knee that I earned taking a fall around a slick corner, we made it back in time to change clothes and get to work with barely a minute to spare. For the rest of the evening, fueled by adrenaline, endorphins, and the sheer timing of coming across the idea on a day filled with blue skies and sunshine, I couldn’t wipe the grin off of my face. As fate would have it, a blizzard hit Whakapapa village the next day making the savoring of our experience even more sweet.

**This little adventure was featured on www.Trazzler.com!

Just Do It.

I’ve never thought of myself as an adventure sports junkie. In fact, most people laughed when I told them I was going to live on the side of a mountain and work at a ski resort when I don’t ski or snowboard. I’m simply here for the experience of seeing another country and having some quiet time to write without the millions of distractions that New York provides on a nightly basis.

That being said, I promised myself that I would be open to new experiences and take advantage of any that presented themselves. When I heard that a group was organizing a white water rafting trip I jumped right in.

Eight of us drove down to Tongariro River Rafting (www.trr.co.nz) where we met our guides Nick and Ben and changed into wetsuits, life jackets, and helmets. They corralled us onto a bus and took us to the river where we got a few brief instructions before hauling our boats into the water.

The severity of a river is rated on a scale of one to five, and my favorite explanation was that one was equivalent to a warm bath, while five was similar to dropping a live hornets nest into your pants. Our river was a level three, and of course we chose a rainy day so we spent our time between rapids (which was probably seventy-five percent) sitting on our hands for warmth. 

Luckily, our guides were full of jokes and silly banter to keep us entertained.

After a two hour ride full of gorgeous scenery, a few thrilling moments of water splashing into our faces and a few more spent bouncing up and down in the boat trying to dislodge ourselves from the top of a rock, we piled back into the busses for a soak in the nearby hot pools. Numb skin tingled against the warmth of the water the moment our toes broke the surface, but within minutes we settled in and never wanted to leave.

Before we knew it we were being called out of the water (just moments before the skies broke and began to rain again) to change back into comfortable clothes. We headed back to home base where tomato soup (homemade from Nick’s garden) was waiting for us with bread and butter. We ate, drank and laughed at the slideshow of photos already streaming on the wall and left as soaking but completely satisfied customers.