Fiji Water under the bridge

Guambat has been in Fiji twice.

The first time, he was transiting on his way back to Guam from Sydney. What could be better than a day-long lay-over in Fiji, Guambat enthusiastically thought. That thought was interrupted by news reports that a coup was underway (there've been four in the last two decades, and this was the first).

Being the inquisitive and adventurous, but reasonable and cautious sole that he is, Guambat made his way into the local markets in Nadi, admiring especially the huge sacks of Indian spices. But he soon found it useful to retreat to the grounds of the "five-star resort" he had put up in for the stay-over. Whilst there, he took up various conversations with the Indian store keepers (or their staff), and shared a cup or two of kava with the hotel Fijian staff.

It seems the Indians have been there for several generations, and the Fijians had been there since time immemorial. And the island(s) just weren't exactly big enough for both of them to co-exist in a harmonious melting pot. Indeed, the only pot it seemed the Indians were good for was one with water in it and fire below. Fortunately, or not, there was all that good spice sitting around waiting for just such a stew.

The last time, hopefully, Guambat was in Fiji was last year, where he boarded his dream cruise, from Fiji to Guam via Vauatu, The Solomons, the Federated States of Micronesia, and home to Guam. All tolled, Guambat has not spent much more than a couple of days in Fiji, so his sampling error is significant. Nevertheless, he's not a fan. The islands are ok, but the dysfunctional ideal of a Pacific Paradise is anything but. It could be, but no one seems prepared to allow the natural ebb and flow of humanity to allow it to be thus.

Which all seemed to spill from the fingertips of Guambat after he read this story:

Fiji Water: Spin the Bottle In typical Mother Jones/Indiana Jones reportage, the story sets the stage:

What followed, in a windowless room at the main police station, felt like a bad cop movie. "Who are you really?" the bespectacled inspector wearing a khaki uniform and a smug grin asked me over and over, as if my passport, press credentials, and stacks of notes about Fiji Water weren't sufficient clues to my identity. (My iPod, he surmised tensely, was "good for transmitting information.") I asked him to call my editors, even a UN official who could vouch for me. "Shut up!" he snapped. He rifled through my bags, read my notebooks and emails. "I'd hate to see a young lady like you go into a jail full of men," he averred, smiling grimly. "You know what happened to women during the 2000 coup, don't you?"

Eventually, it dawned on me that his concern wasn't just with my potentially seditious emails; he was worried that my reporting would taint the Fiji Water brand. "Who do you work for, another water company? It would be good to come here and try to take away Fiji Water's business, wouldn't it?" Then he switched tacks and offered to protect me—from other Fijian officials, who he said would soon be after me—by letting me go so I could leave the country. I walked out into the muggy morning, hid in a stairwell, and called a Fijian friend. Within minutes, a US Embassy van was speeding toward me on the seawall.

Until that day, I hadn't fully appreciated the paranoia of Fiji's military regime.

In this day of blogger bludgeoning over "borrowing" from paid journalists, Guambat daren't repeat much more. Click the link and read for yourself.