Hassle free arrival. Flew fetus style, center isle. Customs was a breeze. My gear smuggle went smooth. Once off the plane the humidity punched me in the face. Off the plane and into Nadi, pronounced Nandi, town. Look left, look right, cross street and almost die, car swerves, I jump. I forgot that they drive on the opposite side of the street in this country. I feel like a stupid American. I feel like the rest of the world feels about Americans. Bruce meets me beside the Range Rover. He and I will be teaching guide school to four of five Fijian boys. I say boys, but really some are older than I am.
Bruce, Tom (bossilevu), Bosilio and I went to go and talk to one of the Mataqali (pronounced Matangali) about a couple of the boys. We had to wear a Sulu (like a serong) in the presence of the villagers and the Chief. No Savusavu, Kava ceremony this time, that will have to wait. My curiosity is overwhelming.