Wayward: Fetching Tales from a Year on the Road

yaqueta island, fiji

The transfer boat is tiny, leaks, is manned by a man with 32 consonants in his name and has no life preservers. It is a death ship. It pulls off land and for the next thirty minutes we alternate between horizontal and vertical, depending on which wave is most determined to flip us. Everyone turns green. Then, like magic, I am on Yaqueta Island.

I picked this island because it was off the books. Upon arrival a quick glance proved that the tip I’d been given was right; this is more of an outpost than anything else. I didn’t expect anyone else to be here, but am greeted by one other tourist who was happy to see new company.

John is 22 year old Asian American from Connecticut. He has zero percent body fat and a six pack, presumably from training for every Olympic sport simultaneously.

Let me explain the ‘resort.’ There are seven leaky shacks on a beach, none with electricity and all with spiders the size of Pam Anderson’s left tit. We live in shack number two which has ten bunk beds. My bed is seven millimeters from John’s and I worry that my body fat will encroach onto his perfectly sculpted frame. He is Men’s Health and Fitness, and I am the TGI Friday’s Menu.

There is a pillow on my bed made of cast iron and a sheet that was woven by people without fingers. There is nothing comfortable about Yaqeta. Yet ten minutes later I am snorkeling and seeing the same fish that I only usually witness in my stoner friends’ aquariums.

John and I eat some potato-ramen combo and drink bottled water that has been refilled and sold as if it is new. The generator runs out around nine. I take an Ambien to block out the mosquitoes buzzing around my bed’s shoddy net and sleep blissfully until the End Of The World rain starts pummeling our hut at 6 a.m., just an hour before the breakfast conch has been blown with great inexperience. After seven trumpeted notes of what sounds like a dying ferret, John echoes my thoughts. “We get the point.”

John has been alone on the island for two days and follows me around like a retriever. He is in the Navy ROTC, speaks military talk (“copy that”) and I make a mental note to get him drunk and ask what really happens when sailors are at sea for months. I have seen porn with this theme and hope it is just as good.

We go to the village with Michael, who takes care of our resort. There are huts and roosters and dogs and kids running around and nobody is speaking anything other than Fijian. I only understand “bula,” which means hello.

We visit a school and see knives stuck in coconuts, sleeping adults lying face first on the floor and a large color picture of Cher. There appear to be lessons about Japan on a chalkboard. The board reads, “The Japanese are rich. They live in big houses.”

We leave the school and I nearly run into a cow that looks like Al Gore. Our eyes lock and the beast knows. “Oh Christ, not the Al Gore thing again.”

On the way back we stop at the funeral of a woman who was 92. She is being buried in the sand and all of the kids are tossing dirt on her. I am asked to toss dirt on her. Then I am asked to help shovel dirt on her. I am burying a 92 year old Fijian woman.

I walk back to the resort with an older man who tells me that he has a mole. I tell him that’s nice. He turns to show me something resembling a puss-filled red golf ball on his chest. I hold back the vomit and expect him to be dead in hours. He just shrugs and keeps walking. If I had a mole like that I would have 50 people praying for me in the ICU at St. Vincent’s. This dude, he’s gotta go take care of the goats now.

Everything gets surreal after this. The rain doesn’t stop. Michael wants us to go to the village for lunch. We agree. When we arrive the village is in full funeral party mode. I say hi to Al Gore on the way in and he gives me a nasty look.