Fijian freedoms

Bula

When somebody needs to be buried in Suva, Fiji’s capital, they call on the prisoners from the jail to dig the graves.

Or at least that’s what I was told.

They wear bright orange jumpsuits and are big and hefty.

Who knows what they’re in for.

They used to try and escape, running up the many paths that criss-cross the hills behind Suva but the guards can run fast too. When they were caught they were often beaten to a pulp.

So now they have just one skinny guard with a baton watching over them as they dig the graves. They know it’s not worth escaping.

While families enjoy the sunshine and the blue skies at Fijian resorts, my thoughts were on how much we take our freedom for granted.

We travellers drop in and drop out – parachuting into trouble spots so long as they have good resorts and happy hours, usually paying little heed to political prisoners or prisoners of any kind.

In Fiji, it’s particularly apt when you realise how many journalists have been jailed or deported since the present administration of Prime Minister Frank Bainimarama took over, not to mention the censoring of the media there.

Fijians and expats have mixed feelings about Bainimarama and his government and eight days in the country isn’t long enough to make a final judgement. Some say a western form of democracy doesn’t work for Fiji. Others are worried about the lack of investment in the country now, except by the Chinese. Most certainly don’t want to go on the record about their feelings.

My driver to the airport in Suva says at least roads are being built and schools improved. (The thought, and Mussolini made the trains run on time entered my head.) But you can see his point.

When I pick up the local papers including The Fiji Sun (no longer owned by Murdoch) there’s photos of a smiling Bainimarama on almost every page.

Over at Savusavu on Fiji’s northern island of Vanua Levu, you can understand why it’s known as the Hidden Paradise. It’s remote, beautiful and has a post-colonial feel about it.

We’re in a Methodist church in a village just down the road from motivational guru Anthony Robbins’ resort Namale, where guests pay thousands of dollars for the privilege of being told how to make thousands when they leave. We're waiting for the villagers to perform. And then out of nowhere we’re given an impromptu sermon about men’s rights and Adam’s rib – a lesson on misogyny, perhaps?

First we’re told missionaries brought the light to Fiji and then that men should always rule the roost, as the Bible showed.

Fijians are deeply religious and I respect this but when the giver of the sermon later jokes that "you come from my ribs" I want to run for the hills. I just hope a prison warden doesn’t chase after me.

Vinaka.