When I told people about my plans to visit Fiji, the Solomon Islands and Papua New Guinea, a surprising number of people asked why. The answer is because I haven’t been to any of those places yet and I thought everyone knew about my possibly foolhardy, probably unachievable ambition to visit every country in the world, or at least as many as I possibly can get to before shuffling off the mortal coil.

Inevitably on the subject of PNG people would mention the crime rate. Yes, I know all about that, I would say, and as it happened I heard some interesting stories about it from a couple of travellers I encountered on the trip. I’ll relate those at the end of the Port Moresby post.

While planning the trip I found (thank you Alex from Flight Centre) that I can fly straight to the Solomon Islands from here and thence to PNG, without having to zigzag back and forth from Australian staging posts like Sydney and/or Brisbane.

So, three Melanesian destinations in one foul swoop. (And yes, I know it’s ‘fell swoop’, but while ‘fell’ and ‘foul’ mean basically the same thing, the malapropism is funnier because it conjures the image of a ferocious chook descending from the sky onto its prey.)

Day 1 was Hobart-Sydney, Sydney-Nadi. This second leg was a category 2 Travel Horror. Up at 4.15 for an 8.30 am flight. We boarded and happily settled in when the pilot announced we couldn’t fly because a crack had been discovered in the co-pilot’s window, causing it to mist up. ‘No quick fix’, said the pilot, ‘we’ll have to find you another plane.’ Fair enough, can’t blame Qantas for that. The pilot told us we’d be disembarked into the departure lounge so we wouldn’t have to go through customs and security again (good) but that we’d have to wait for Border Force to authorise it, which took about half an hour (bad). Why? Why couldn’t Border Force just say ‘yep, good idea,’ and let us get off straight away so we could go and spend our $30 vouchers on breakfast in the terminal?

It took two hours for the new plane to come and we boarded happily. Then – another delay! There wasn’t going to be any catering on this new flight (hence the vouchers) but the crew jacked up and demanded they be allowed to load drinks at least, as they were to do the return flight and would need some refreshment.

Fair enough too. And god bless the pilot for giving us frequent progress reports. My neighbours and I all agreed it had made the delay much easier to stomach knowing exactly what the problems were, and in a timely fashion. It worked to the pilot’s advantage too in that it deflected our ire to a) the technical malfunction, b) Border Force and c) Qantas (for mucking the crew around with the drinks thing).

At last, three hours late, we took off, and Fate had no further misfortune to visit on us.

Nadi: 30 degrees and very humid when we arrived. Loved the traditional musical welcome and the arrivals corridor open to the elements and the view of runway and distant mountains. Customs and baggage reclaim all went smoothly. We seemed to be the only arrivals in the terminal, so I was surprised when the taxi-driver and some other travellers later told me there are about 20 flights into Nadi every day now, from Adelaide, Los Angeles and China as well as the usual Sydney, Melbourne, Brisbane and Auckland.

I’m at the Mercure. Usually a 15-minute drive from the airport, but on Friday evening at peak hour, more like 30.

It’s OK. I could have wished for a swifter check-in, but there was a load of faffing about to be endured in order to get access to their free wifi. I had to sign up to the hotel chain’s loyalty program. I wish they had told me about that in advance, like the Port Moresby Hilton did. With them I was able to do all the faffing about in the comfort of my own home and not, as here at the Mercure Nadi, standing at the front desk dog-tired and yearning for a cold beer, food and sleep, in that order.

I’m going to be outlining a few First World Problems here. Not because I’m a whinger, no sirree. It’s because my duty as a travel blogger is to pass on experience and tips. Any questions? I thought not.

So to the next fly-in-the-ointment: it’s Aussie school holidays and the hotel swimming pool is full of kids screeching and bellowing all the live-long day. Bear this in mind when choosing the dates for YOUR Fiji sojourn.

Next: music. There was a combo performing in the bar/restaurant/outdoor area last night, consisting of a big Fijian woman and a bloke playing on something or other I couldn’t make out in the dark. She had a good voice and sang all the right easy-listening stuff, but it was too damn loud and there was no quiet corner anywhere. No escape. Even when I retired to my ground-floor room after a 40-minute wait for my (very good) pizza washed down with some okay but overpriced ($FJ16 a glass) chardonnay, the bass notes penetrated the walls. (Cue sympathy for your correspondent yearning for sleep after her ungodly rising and sundry ordeals.)

Next day I chose to forego the official ‘sights’ – the hot mudsprings, the big Hindu temple – because the hotel was going to charge a motzah for their favoured tour so I decided to head out for some street life and the markets instead.

I headed into town on foot and passed several kava bars just walking along the main street into town. I tried the stuff once, years ago in Darwin. It was like drinking liquid chalk. Yuk. I spat it out immediately and I remember it took me ages to get that chalky feel out of my mouth. The bloke at one of the many kava market stalls (see featured pic, top) told me you soon get used to the taste and feel but … why would you want to?

Within a short time I was hailed by Chris, who offered to take me into the markets in town for $15. I got him down to $7. There was an awful high-pitched whining noise inside the car, and when I asked about it Chris explained that it was his faulty ABS system that meant he effectively had no brakes! (Wish I could remember what kind of car it was because I know some folks like that kind of detail, but all I can say is that it wasn’t an old bomb.) Chris had no qualms about telling me this, and he demonstrated how he was able to stop the car at any time using the handbrake and gears (and I couldn’t swear to it but I think it was an automatic – sorry again). He thought this was terribly funny, and I wanted to take a photo of his merry face but he wouldn’t let me. When he dropped me off he didn’t have change for my $20 bill, so I gave him a 5 and a one (coin) instead, telling him the discount was for the horrible noise and the lack of brakes. He still laughed.

The market area was vast. And it was just for food (and kava).

Don’t look too closely at the chooks, poor buggers. No egg shortage here though.

At some stage during my market wanderings I got to reflecting on how quickly I was getting through the airport potboiler I brought along, and a terrible fear seized me that I might soon be caught out with nothing to read. I briefly castigated myself for getting into such a pickle. I’ve got a house full of books but I like to travel light. I SHOULD have downloaded the odd title onto my kindle and brought that with me but ….I didn’t. (Planning failure.)

So I went in search of bookshops or newsagenty-type places that might sell magazines. Zilch to be found. Just street after street of shops filled with cheap imported clothes and tat, One fella lured me into a shop saying it had none of that Chinese and Indian rubbish but was all authentically hand-made Fijian stuff. He himself had an unmistakeably Indian accent and did not look Melanesian but I courteously refrained from pointing this out and went in for a look. There were some nice children’s drawings on rough paperbark and lots of wood carvings but I’ve long since cured myself of the impulse to pick up ornaments, or jewellery, or clothes, although I do occasionally succumb to lush interesting textiles. No, I reminded myself, the only souvenirs I’m allowed to bring home from foreign parts these days are …. fridge magnets! And thus reminded, I bought this suitably glitzy kitschy one, for which I paid way over the odds but what the heck.

As for the other quest – for books – that proved to be quite an adventure because it got me talking to numerous folks, starting with two nice ladies handing out flyers for the USP (University of the South Pacific). They ought to know where to find books, I figured. And they did. They advised me to get on the bus to Namaka, which happened to be waiting at the stop over the road. By now I had some small change so was confident I could purchase my ride. Hopped on the bus, $1 a ride, out to Namaka, couldn’t find the place, got back on the bus, got off at the wrong stop, found a nice cafe, had iced coffee (it was pretty hot) and a tiny quiche, bought some sandwiches for ‘ron, got talking to a nice lady who re-directed me back to Namaka with clearer directions to the bookshop, got on the bus again, got talking to another lady with two boys who was getting off at the same stop and sent one of her sons to go with me, found the bookshop, gave the little boy a dollar for being my tour guide, bought 2 books, got back on the bus and went back to the hotel.

The buses are mostly open, like this one. And not only are the people super-friendly and helpful, one young man gave up his seat for me, and once when I fumbled too long in my pocket for the change, the driver and his sidekick just waved me on board without collecting my fare. Each of the four buses I rode on had this same set-up: a young bloke, apparently some sort of apprentice, sits cross-legged next to the driver. It’s his job to take the money, and also to fiddle with the volume control on the music which was, as usual, very loud but I liked it: a bit reggae, a bit calypso, obviously local and authentic! I recorded a short video but the hotel wifi isn’t up to uploading so much data, I fear.

I also came across a bunch of about 50 people demonstrating along the highway. They were for Jesus and against drugs and were singing in beautiful harmony. I took a vid, but no stills, silly me. I even edited the video down to just one second, but computer says ‘this type of file is not supported’. Sigh.

But I did find two good books in a tiny little newsagent of a place that would have had no more than about 200 titles spread over 4 short shelves. They were secondhand, but cost the equivalent of about $A12 each. But what with ominous warnings about a lack of internet in the Solomons, at least I won’t be bookless.

On my last night in Fiji I had $43 in local money left (about $A29).  I fancied a quieter venue away from the hotel’s family and fun crowd and went across the road where there were a few eateries.  I went into a place that called itself a seafood restaurant but was just your basic Chinese.  There were no customers, (should have noted the red flag) just a Fijian woman with a lovely warm smile and welcome and a scowling Chinese man I suspect was her husband, who uses her to lure in customers, then rips them off as follows:

I could get a bowl of chicken and corn soup and a plate of spring rolls for $45 but they wouldn’t let me off the $2, so I paid by card.  When it came, it was clear the soup was a whole tureen full, meant for about 10 people!  When I complained about this the young Fijian girl just smiled and played dumb. I should’ve taken more notice of the absence of any other customers and gone elsewhere.

So still with $43 in cash by the time I got to the airport, I bought a bottle of Aussie chardonnay at the duty-free for $20.  Didn’t fancy humping two of them in my backpack so that left me with $23.  Often at this stage I’ll look around for a humble toilet cleaner to give leftover money to, but there weren’t any around.  My chance for a warm inner glow came on the plane when the hostie came round collecting donations for the hospital in Honiara.  I gave her the lot, and got a huge smile in return. 

Next stop: Honiara in the Solomon Islands.