Raivana and I are neighbors, and she lives with her three sons, Tomasi, Anare (nickname - Bai), and Kelevi (ages 11, 8, and 4, respectively), and an older grandma. Raivana Di Veni is 39 years old. Her husband has been living and working in Australia for the past two years. 

I interviewed my Raivana back in June last year, with the goal of learning more about her canteen operations and management.

In this transcribed interview, I reference the following Fijian words and concepts:

Raivana - Raivana translates to sister-in-law. I have a host family within my village community, and every community member in the village has a family title in relation to that.

Nau - Nau translate to “father.” In Fiji, you can call someone “father” who isn’t your direct father; rather, they are a man one generation older. In the case of the Nau referred to in this interview, he would be my uncle in the American/Western context. This Nau is my Raivana’s husband.

Nada - Grandma

Kerekere - The direct translation is “please.” Contextually, people say kerekere when they are asking for a favor.

Dinau - The direct translation is “credit.” When you ask someone for a favor (kerekere) in the form of borrowing money, you sometimes can then owe credit (dinau) to that person.

*

The following interview is transcribed to reflect Raivana’s words as accurately as possible.

CANTEEN BACKGROUND AND HISTORY

Tell me about your canteen. My canteen is called “Natuwaqewaqe Enterprise.” It was started on April 14, 2023, with money from your Nau.

What are your family’s current sources of income? For the past two years, most of our money has come from Nau’s job in Australia, where he does packing and delivery for a moving company. My father helped find the job for him. Prior to Nau going to Australia, our income came from teitei (farming) and basa (selling produce at the market).

Why did you start a canteen? I wanted to add an additional source of income to our household to help pay for school funds. I also wanted to help feed the village. Nau is coming back around Christmas time, and by then, I want the canteen to be our main source of income.

Is your canteen a registered business? When did you register it and what did that process look like? Yes, it is. I went to Suva to the Registrar of Companies Office in the Ministry of Justice. As mentioned, I started the canteen in April 2023, and I recently went to re-register on May 29th. I have to renew the business license annually.

(Raivana did some home renovation right before this interview, expanding her house to create a separate section for canteen operations. I was curious about the expansion.)

What made you decide to expand? I wanted to separate work and home. Having space dedicated to the canteen reduces noise and disturbance in the house as well. It’s easier to have one clear and separate location where I can put all of the canteen groceries.

How did you plan for the expansion? I bought the wood myself, and I paid some of the youth and men in the community to help me build it. It cost $1200FJD.

CANTEEN OPERATIONS AND FINANCE/ACCOUNTING

How do you manage the canteen? I operate the canteen by myself. If I’m away from the house or the village, Nada Seru manages the store in my absence. I review my books during my spare time, and I always make sure to review them before going to Suva to stock up on inventory.

Do you have canteen operating hours? Yes. We operate from 6am-9pm.

Do you track your income and expenses? Yes. I track the cash flow and the cost of groceries. I track certain products such as grog (kava), suki (Fijian-grown tobacco), and cigarettes separately. When I started the canteen, I made about $20-$30 dollars a week and targeted $50. Now, my profit is $60-$100 each week. Other than the restocking of inventory, my biggest expenses are bus transportation costs and plastic bags.

(Kerekere/dinau is a core part of Fijian culture. Money, goods, and favors are exchanged within the ebb and flow of daily life. Every Fijian I’ve interacted with has approached kerekere/dinau differently, but one thing is consistent: everyone is connected to some thread of kerekere/dinau, whether it’s within their families or within their communities. I was curious how my Raivana dealt with it in regard to her canteen.)

Do you do dinau? Yes, I do, but selectively. I only allow people in our community to take dinau out, with a $20 credit limit. I track all dinau in my books. Usually, every Saturday after people go to the market to sell their farm produce, they pay the dinau back. I only trust the people I know in our village to do this. For every other customer from outside of the village, I accept cash only.

Where do you keep your money? Right before Nau left for Australia in 2022, we went to town to open a family bank account together. My money is in that bank account. I deposit money into the bank every two weeks.

Do you save any of the profit you make? Not right now, but I would like to in the future. Next month, I plan to open a unit trust for my kids.

How do you spend your canteen income? I use the money when I want or need something for the family. Recently, I used $800FJD of the canteen income to buy a deep freezer to expand my products and start selling frozen goods. As I increase my profit, I plan to split the income, put half of it into savings, and invest the other half back into the canteen. By the end of the year, I’d like to stop funding the canteen with our family savings and transition to purely using canteen income to maintain my business.

CANTEEN INVENTORY MANAGEMENT

How do you decide what items to sell in your canteen? When I started, I bought products that I know people in my community buy and consume regularly: tinned fish, Sun Bell, noodles, biskete (breakfast crackers), beans, and snacks. As the canteen has increased in profit over time, I have expanded my inventory to include other popular items like soybean oil.

What are your biggest money maker items? The most popular products are noodles, Sun Bell, tinned fish, milk powder, and biskete. For biskete, the FMF brand is a favorite with people. 

*Laughs* I actually tested whole meal biskete once; no one bought it.

How often do you restock your inventory? I currently restock once a week. I want to transition to doing one trip every two weeks. I haven’t transitioned to wholesale yet.

Where do you buy your inventory? I go to Tara’s in Nausori. I buy some of my inventory by the carton, e.g., tinned fish, biskete, and noodles. This usually lasts for two weeks. If customers happen to do a lot of shopping, this inventory lasts about one week. My biskete sales have increased to two cartons of biskete per week. For all of the other products I sell in the canteen, I buy individually.

CUSTOMERS, MARKETING, AND SALES

Who are your biggest customers? My biggest customers are Nau Tu Meli and Na Lesi. Nau Tu Meli buys a lot of noodles and Sun Bell. My other top customers consistently repurchase certain items.

Ta Levu: Powdered milk, biskete, and butter

Tutua: Tinned fish and noodles

Turaganikoro: Biskete, powdered milk, and tinned fish

Momo Qio: Tinned meat, noodles, and tinned fish

Tavale Marika: Tinned fish and noodles

Na Levu is the only customer who regularly buys plastic bags to carry her purchases. Everyone else in the village just carries their purchases back to their house. I have some repeat customers from the settlement across the river as well – they usually buy plastic bags too.

How do you price your goods? I charge different prices and make different profit margins depending on the item. Most profit margins usually fall within the range of $0.25FJD-$0.50FJD. Milk and butter have a larger profit margin of $0.70FJD.

CHALLENGES AND LOOKING AHEAD

What challenges have you faced with your canteen business? When I first started the canteen, it was extremely difficult. It was hard to get the business off the ground. Now that I have added the expansion, it feels much easier to manage the canteen.

Is there anything you want to learn more about? I want to learn how to spend the money I make more effectively. I also want to learn how to save.

I want to teach my boys, especially Tomasi, my eldest, how to count veisau (change) in higher amounts. He can handle giving change to customers in small amounts, but he usually calls for me when customers need larger amounts. Bai always knows to just yell for me when a customer comes.

I have given my boys a money box to practice handling money. It cost $3.00FJD for each money box, and I’ve added $5.00-6.00FJD into each of their money boxes. I give them $0.50 a week to help them practice saving and also to learn more about their spending habits.

When I cook dinner, my boys have to eat whatever I make. If they want to eat something else, they have to go and get money from their money boxes to spend their own money on things like noodles or other food. Only then will I make something else for them. I really want to teach them the importance of maroroi ilavo (savings) and “keeping the money.”

Do you have any upcoming plans for your business? By the end of the year, I want my canteen to be self-sufficient. I want to sell enough items to have savings for the kids. This canteen has really helped my family a lot. Sometimes, we don’t have enough money, and the canteen income has supplemented the income we make from farming for vuli (school), lotu (church), and soqo (functions and events).

*

As I reflect on this interview and its contents, I feel proud of my Raivana. She’s running a well-operated business. As another volunteer said, this is a 'model canteen.' I agree.

I conducted this interview back in June 2024. It is now February 2025. Raivana’s husband just returned from Australia last month. Their kids are ecstatic that he’s back, and they have been attached at the hip.

I recently stopped by her house the other week to catch up on the latest. Canteen dinau has increased by $5 to a new $25 credit limit. I’d like to think this is akin to the village having a good credit score. Tomasi, her eldest, is the best at saving out of the three kids. Bai buys a lot of ice pops with his money, and I can’t help but relate to her middle child’s spending habits. Summer in Fiji is blisteringly hot, humid, and oppressive. Raivana’s homemade ice pops are bright pink in color, sweet on the tongue, and perfectly cold.

I ask my Raivana if she has any new plans for the canteen. She tells me she has another expansion in mind. I lean in excitedly to learn more.

For me, I have moved around on this “spectrum of support,” to mixed results. It has varied depending on the grant, the project, and the situational context. I try to put collaboration, education, exposure, and sustainability at the forefront. Honestly, I want to lead as little as possible, if that makes sense. Ideally, I’m here as a source of support - an additional conduit of information and opportunities. At the end of the day, I constantly face uncertainties and a deep lack of knowledge and experience while here. This gap leaves me curious to learn more about what “good development” consists of.

Fulfillment

Back in March, Peace Corps launched the Blue Pacific Youth Initiative (BPYI) across four Pacific Islands: Fiji, Samoa, Tonga, and Vanuatu. They were looking for four youth from each of the four islands to join the program, with the aim of mobilizing and empowering Pacific youth to drive climate adaptation and resilience efforts. 

In Fiji, the application was open to all youths in villages that have Peace Corps Volunteers. In my community, one of the youth, Ro Vatiseva, expressed interest in applying. Ro Va is 22 years old and studying to become a teacher. She only has a couple more units to complete at FNU (Fiji National University) before she graduates. She went through a few rounds of drafting her submission and took all of my questions and feedback in stride. “I encourage you to add a few more paragraphs. How has climate change impacted you? How has it impacted your village? Why is it so important for you and your community to build climate resilience? Why do you want to become a teacher? How do you want to empower future generations to fight climate change through education?” 

In her final draft, one part really stuck out to me. “...Fijian[s] hold ties to their communities dear to their hearts. In Fiji, we are… deeply connected to the land. The land provides us with everything. It identifies us in terms of our ‘veiwekani’ or ‘ties with other Fijians’.”

A few weeks later, she messaged me (via Facebook Messenger - Facebook is huge in Fiji).

She tells me how after she received the call, she sat down, then cried, then jumped for joy. She tells me how the weeks before submitting her application, she worked full days late into 10pm at night and would work on the application after getting back home at 11pm. 

And I mean - I’ll be honest - it felt really gratifying. It was a moment that I felt viscerally; briefly, it felt like I was bursting at the seams. Since the day I arrived in my village in November last year, I’ve been thinking about how I can possibly repay the generosity and love that my community has shown me. I think this moment helped to chip away at that overwhelming feeling a bit. “Oh,” I thought to myself, “maybe I can actually do some good here.”

Helplessness

I frequently experience cognitive dissonance in Fiji, where it feels like my Western values and understanding of gender equality clash with the realities of the gender roles in Fijian culture that are especially prevalent in rural, iTaukei villages. It’s difficult for me to experience the vastly different gender norms here, and it’s often equally as difficult to watch certain gender norms play out as well.

When I see the mothers cleaning and cooking and serving, and then cleaning and cooking and serving again the next day, I feel a deep sense of discomfort. When I see the pregnant women who are about to be mothers serving the men and washing the dishes during every big village event, a small part of me briefly hopes that they will have daughters to lessen the load. And then I immediately feel sorrow, because that is yet another young girl who is brought into the world with a role they must play. 

At meals, the women and the girls eat whatever is left after everyone else has had their fill. I have no right to say anything in these moments. I often eat earlier, sometimes with the men. While I am a woman, I am also a guest. Even though I will live in this community for two years, I’m “from America.” So I sit in this difficult-to-define in-between of being a woman, which comes with all the things that exist in deeply-rooted gender norms and gender expectations, and also being an outsider from a developed, Western country, who has privileges that women in the village do not have.

I don’t think wanting equality for women disregards the nuances that exist in gender roles. Men in the village are often also expected to do certain things (like manual labor and more intensive farm work) or act a certain way every single day. So many of my feelings and thoughts about gender, and more specifically, gender in Fiji, are bunched up and crowded next to each other in my brain. I do recognize that I’m viewing gender through a Western lens, through my perspective and my experiences. Gender equality here looks and is different, and it’s not for me to decide or figure out. As you get closer to towns and cities, you can see that the gender norms are shifting. As one of my LCFs (Language and Culture Facilitator) said months ago, “It’s slow, but there is change.”

Defensiveness

Race is often already a difficult enough topic to discuss while in the States. Here in Fiji, where race and ethnicity are viewed through a different lens of history, context, and understanding, it sometimes feels impossible for me to talk about without feeling defensive.

“Are you from China?” asks a lady who is visiting from a nearby tikina (district). “No,” I respond, “I’m from America.”

A young boy smiles as he pulls the corners of his eyes back to appear “Oriental.” I gently scold him as I try to explain why that’s offensive.

“Are you Japanese or Korean?” is the first question the chief asks in a village I visit in Lautoka. “I’m American,” I say, “but my parents are from China.”

A bunch of guys from across the street shout “Konnichiwa!” when they see me walking in the city. I yell back, “I’m not Japanese!”

Some girls in my village chant “Ching chang chong” as they ask me if they can learn the Chinese language from me. I firmly tell them how that is racist; that phrase has no meaning and is not a Chinese term. There is history behind this term being used in a derogatory way throughout the 1900s and into present day; it is an ethnic slur. But I can teach them some Mandarin, if they’d like.

I don’t hear these types of comments as much in the States anymore, especially not while I was living in San Francisco. Here in Fiji, it’s frequent and almost always inevitable whenever I meet someone new. People are curious because I’m not the stereotypical white American that they see in the American movies and shows that have made their way across the globe. 

In the U.S., these types of comments are racial microaggressions and often said with the underlying mindset of, “You don’t look like you belong here. Where are you really from?” In the U.S., I’m often flat out rude when someone asks or says something along these lines. In the U.S., I barely have any tolerance left for these types of comments. I was born in fucking Detroit, people.

Here in Fiji, even though I know these comments and questions often come from a place of curiosity, they all sound the same when I hear them. I still react with defensiveness - a need to explain and prove that I’m also American, just like the white people they see in Hollywood movies. My response is reactionary and often brusque, and after the fact, I reflect that I may have come across a bit rude, too. 

It’s difficult to separate intent from impact in the moment. A few months ago, I was in a car on the way back to the village after watching a provincial rugby game. We stop by the rugby team manager’s house to drop something off, and the man greets me with “Konnichiwa.” I immediately respond with, “I’m American” as I shake his hand. He’s taken aback as he says, “Oh, nice to meet you.” As we drive away, Nau Meli (the driver and a village uncle) explains to me that the manager thought I was the new Japanese volunteer from JICA (Japan International Cooperation Agency) who just joined the team as a nutritionist and physical therapist. I feel a little bad for reacting so defensively, as I realize that he said “Konnichiwa” as a way to connect with me, just like how I greet everyone in Fiji with “Bula vinaka” as a way to connect with the people here.

Back in February, during Lunar New Year, I went with a family to a Chinese restaurant to celebrate. At the end of the meal, I started chatting with the waitress, who was Indo-Fijian (Fijian of South Asian descent). I asked her where she was from, and she quickly responded that she was from here, Fiji. I felt ashamed, as I immediately realized that I did to her what I often experience myself. 

I recently asked my Na Vini (aunt) whether there’s a reason why Fijians always make direct assumptions about my ethnicity when asking questions like, “Are you from Japan?” or “Are you from China?” or “Are you Japanese or Korean?” I explained to her the racially-charged context of those types of questions through the lens of being a minority in the U.S. She then shared with me that in Fiji, asking, “Where are you from?” is actually too direct and alienating, insinuating that the person they are speaking to is an outsider. Instead, people often ask, “Are you from ___?” and make an immediate assumption as a way to actually soften the question and be more inclusive, allowing the other person to more comfortably respond, “No, actually I’m from ___.” 

Identity can be a painful and complicated thing to defend. People inevitably make assumptions and judgments based on how you look, and cultural differences and direct language translations can lead to vastly different “intent” vs “impact.” Learning the “why” behind everything, for me at least, adds context that helps me be a little less defensive. 

Joy

I’ve been in Fiji for ten months. I think this is the most time I have spent with kids since I was a kid myself. I’ve been holding weekly vuli (translates to “school,” but in this case, it stands for “after-school tutoring”) for the primary and secondary school kids in my village. Bai, one of the boys in Class 3 (third grade), has been bringing Awesome Animals every week to read. A few months ago, we got a donation of 50+ books for the village (shout-out to Darien Book Aid). Since then, we’ve started a little library / book-lending system of sorts. Every week, the children come to vuli and pick out one or two books they would like to borrow. 

Bai has plenty of books about animals that he now chooses from. 

Mana, who is 3-years-old, shouts “moto-tale” (one of those toddler-word-mashups that consists of “motoka” (car) and “tale” (again)) as he points at the trucks he sees in a tiny 10-page flip book. 

Tu Mo, one of the boys in Class 5 (fifth grade), picks a new Magic Tree House book each week. That was one of my favorite series when I was in elementary school.

Titilia, who just started Class 1 (first grade), mouths each letter silently before stringing together a new word she’s never seen before.

Kids learn quickly. I can hear the difference in their reading comprehension within just a few months of school and consistent reading. Their excitement and energy is ceaseless. Whenever I want an easy pick-me-up, I wavoki (wander) around the village until I find one to hang out with.

Tubuna is one of my favorite babies in the village. He’s seven months old, and his birthday is December 1st (mine is December 2nd). People in the village call him “Smiling Sam.” Where “Sam” came from, I have absolutely no idea, but he definitely is one of the smiliest babies I’ve ever met. He lives in the house closest to the bus stop, and I call for him every time I wait for the bus to take me into town.

One of the newest babies in the village is my yaca. Yaca means “namesake.” The iTaukei have a tradition of naming children after older relatives. In my village of 40-50 people, maybe 90-100 if you include all of the others who have moved out to cities or abroad, you can find groups of 3-4 people with the same name. My yaca is my village chief’s granddaughter, and I was shocked when they decided to name her after me, two months into my time in my community. She is five months old now, and nestled in her multiple middle names is my name, “Katie Zhao.” I love passing by their house and shouting, “Yaca!”

Awe

I feel more grounded in nature here. My community's main source of livelihood is farming. I live right next to Rewa River, the longest and widest river in Fiji; I can see it when I look out my back window. I definitely feel like I’m living in nature, with the number of bugs and critters I sweep off my floor, flick off my arms, and watch crawl around my house with an increasing sense of indifference every day. There’s always grass and dirt in my house, picked up from walking barefoot outside. The roosters crowing and birds chirping barely register for me now, until I’m on the phone with friends who mention the background noise.

We planted jasmine bushes around the perimeter of my house the first week I got to the village. Last week, we planted three little plots of kavete (literally translates to “cabbage” but is more similar to bok choy) next to my house. I’ve been watering them every day.

I find myself on the road a lot in Fiji. Often, it’s while riding an open-air bus, rumbling along the rural, dirt roads of Naitasiri Province. When I’m on the bus, there’s a sense of surrealness as I look out the window. I feel as though the land and sky are in me as I watch the landscape fly by. Sun rays cut beams of light down through the clouds. I close my eyes and hold my breath as the bus follows the lorries (big trucks) that kick up big puffs of dust on the road.

The pungent scent of chicken farms is another reason to hold my breath. I can feel the funky smell make its way up my nose before my eyes have a chance to see them pass by.

My eyes trace the outlines of trees. Floppy palm leaves swirl with the wind, and the treetops look as though they are dancing in the sky. I wish I could dance with them.

Shouts of “Lewa Vasa!” break through my daydreaming, and I shout, “Lewa Moli!” or “Lewa Cava?” (cava means “what”) back. It’s one of the easiest ways to get a laugh out of someone. Most of the iTaukei have a totem, which includes which tree/shrub, bird, and aquatic creature their family identifies with. Vasa and Moli are kau (trees), and in Naitasiri Province, it’s common to call people by their kau.

I have moments where I feel viscerally present on the bus. There’s a biting chill in the early morning air now that it’s winter. It’s a relief to take a break from the thick haze of summer.

In the morning, with the first bus ride into the city, I notice that the white water lilies in one pond have opened up. I look for the closed flower petals on the last bus ride back to my village. The flowers remind me of China.

I sometimes think that when I’m back in the States, reminiscing about my time in Fiji, it will feel a little something like how I feel while sitting on the bus, a little something like a dream.

As the bus rolls up to my village, I watch the laundry float on lines connected to yellow bamboo staked into the ground. Our village population has increased by three in the past six months, and these new babies wear through the onesies that sway next to their parents’ sulu (clothes) and siqeleti (shirts) . Shorts are curled up on the laundry line, snug and drying next to the smoke that comes out of my Na’s (host mom) kitchen where she cooks with firewood.

As I walk towards my house, I see Rewa River peeking out from behind the trees. It’s wide and still. The sun sets, reflecting colors against the sky. I find myself looking up more here. The sky is beautiful; the clouds take on new and wonderful shapes each day. I can see more stars at night. The constellations are different here, and the moon hangs upside down. I think of the nature here, along with my emotions and experiences, as just some of the many things that I am slowly becoming more comfortable with in Fiji.

Suva is packed. The streets are filled with people streaming in and out of stores, with everyone carrying bags overflowing with food, drinks, and presents. I add to the rush, stopping by the seaside market for produce, New World for snacks for the kids back in the village, and Vodafone for a quick data top-up. Last-minute holiday shopping is the same everywhere.

December 24, 2023 - Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve is pretty uneventful until late afternoon. People start to congregate on Raivana’s porch - it’s time for grog. This is the first time I gunu yaqona (drink grog/kava) since my Sevusevu (welcome ceremony) one month ago. I’m there for hours, getting plied with high-tide bilos (bowls) from my Tavale (cousin). I kerekere vakacegu (literally translates to “please rest”) and excuse myself to go back to my house. The rest of the adults stay up until the moon is high in the sky, unfazed by the 5am church service that’s right around the corner.

December 25, 2023 - Christmas Day

Fijians are extremely Christian; I am not religious. It’s a complicated feeling for me to suddenly attend Sunday lotu (church), sit in on weekly Bible study, and regularly masu (pray) before any meal that I eat with others. I am still figuring out how I feel about religion and spirituality. As I do that, I commit to fully participating in all church activities in an effort to connect with my community and respect both the people I live with and the culture I am learning to live in. And with that, I am up at 4am for Christmas Day lotu. It’s early, and shortly after the service, I drift off into a brief morning nap. 

Holiday celebrations continue to crescendo as relatives stream in and out of the village starting from late Christmas morning all the way through New Years. I wavoki (wander around) and hop from house to house, going from eating a feast for Christmas lunch, to spending a few hours on Raivana’s porch with a book, to sitting in Tutua (grandpa) Luca’s house to talanoa (tell stories) about my day. I find myself holding a second cup of hot chocolate, and it’s just as delicious and nostalgic as always. As late evening rolls around, I end up in Tutua Ravu’s (another grandpa) house and davo (lay down) on the carpet to sara iyaloyalo (watch a movie) and play cards with some kids. 

From as young as I can remember, I went to holiday parties where 15-20 families would gather in one house to celebrate the biggest holidays each year: Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, and Lunar New Year. We were all Chinese immigrant families, family friends who felt like family, with all of our actual relatives back in China. Sitting in Tutua Ravu’s house on Christmas Day feels exactly the same as sitting in Meihong 阿姨’s (auntie) house, everyone fighting sleep as we try to extend our time together.

December 26, 2023 - Boxing Day

Somehow, even more people show up to the village on Boxing Day; we have an even bigger feast for lunch than we did on Christmas Day. There are more cousins, aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, and children running around as we eat ika vakalolo (fish in coconut cream), drink Tang juice, and talanoa (tell stories). 

One family flew in from the U.S., and it reminds me of when I was a kid, visiting my grandparents and extended family in China. The parents grew up in Fiji and immigrated to the U.S. about a decade ago. They have two boys, both born in the U.S., a 5 year old and an 8 year old. 

The boys want to use a “real toilet”, they’re scared of the bugs, they play on their phones, they accidentally wear their shoes inside, and they only speak English, missing the meaning of the back and forth volleys of iTaukei spoken by their grandparents and cousins. There is such a clear dissonance between these children and the children who grew up in this village. The clothes they wear, what they like to eat, the way they speak, the way they act - it’s all different. The language of family is universal though, as a grandpa tickles the younger boy and an uncle hugs the older one. As I sit across from them during lunch, I’m unexpectedly confronted with my parent’s decision to immigrate to the U.S. over 30 years ago. As I sit across from them, the somehow nearly identical experience of me visiting my relatives in China as a young child is reflected back at me on the other side of the tablecloth, but instead of Datong, China, I’m in a small village in Fiji.

Being the child of immigrants isn’t uncommon or special in the U.S.; I grew up surrounded by them. The U.S. is a country of immigrants. And yet in that moment, I feel a sudden and stark wave of emotion as I almost burst into tears, sitting on the floor, cross-legged in a different country and seeing what immigration and leaving behind one culture and one country and one life for another means.

I wonder when or if the kids I just met will experience what I feel today. I hope they learn iTaukei like I’ve learned Mandarin, and I hope they continue to discover and experience the joys and the richness of straddling two cultures.

December 31, 2023 - New Year’s Eve

The morning of New Year’s Eve is uneventful, and I start to feel sick around lunchtime. I leave lunch early and go back to my house, falling into a sweaty doze before waking up a few hours later. As I start to chug ORS (oral rehydration salts)-filled water, celebrations start. I drift in and out of sleep as the last day of 2023 starts to wraps up. Fiji Time is GMT+12; we are one of the first countries in the world that will greet the new year.

At 10pm, I visit Salote; the electricity is out, and candles are lit as families gunu ti (drink tea). I say hello and chat for five minutes before going back to bed. I jerk awake again at midnight to, in my delirium, what sounds like either hundreds of coconuts falling on tin roofs or fireworks. I drag myself out of bed as I tell myself I will not ring in the new year alone and sick in my house. I venture outside and see that the sound I’m hearing is Salote banging the kava tabili (mortar) with a bamboo pole. I hear a guitar being strummed as the men sing and gunu yaqona (drink kava). I see people shaking hands and wishing each other “Happy New Year!”. I join in and say “Happy New Year!” as well, before going back to bed, again.

January 1, 2024 - New Year’s Day

I wake up in the morning and end up heading into the city, spending the rest of New Year’s Day and the subsequent couple of days in Suva after talking to the Peace Corps medical staff. I sleep off my sickness and take a brief break from the overwhelming holiday celebrations.

January 3, 2024 to January 18, 2024 

I head back to my village on the 3rd. Interestingly enough, New Year’s celebrations continue for weeks in the village. Music blasts out of Salote’s house every evening, actual fireworks are lit, and an all-out sui war breaks out. 

Sui is when you get water dumped on you by your cousins. Water is traditionally spilled down your back to ring in the new year, but the definition is loose. Water bottles get squeezed over people, full buckets and basins of water get aggressively tossed, and there’s strategizing across houses as everyone tries to sui each other and get revenge, over and over again. 

One of my host brothers wakes up at 6am and sneaks into Salote’s house, waking her and her two brothers up with buckets of water, soaking their blankets and beds and all. For the next two days, every time I leave my house, I carry a plastic basin of water around with me in fear of retaliation. I shout desperately, “Au sa tauvimate!” (I am sick) every time I hear someone shout “Sui sui!” at me. I still get splashed; tavales (cousins) are relentless. No one is safe, not even 2-year-old Kelevi, who is often carried around by his mom and gets frequently caught in the sui trajectory. In between Tutua Luca’s 88th birthday party, village meetings that pick back up, and afternoons playing volleyball, the sui war rages on amidst the children’s (and adults’) laughter and screams that fill the village air.

We finally wrap up the celebrations in mid-January, with a huge lovo (traditional Fijian feast made in an underground oven) and the last day of sui sui. It was an incredibly stressful, fun, and exhausting two weeks of constantly looking over my shoulder and double-checking my locks each night before bed.

As the days spill into the second half of January, the holiday season fades away. I’d like to think that I’ve expanded my capacity to “feel the holiday spirit” after this year. I think my next holiday season here will give me something closer to how I usually feel this time of year. And when I’m back in the U.S., there will be small, unexpected moments of nostalgia that will remind me of how the holidays are celebrated in Fiji.

We walk past our dalo farm and through the tall grass before settling down by the river. “When the guavas are ripe, I always come to fish here,” Lei says. I watch as she gets ready. She finds a stick to snap in half and sticks it in the ground. She starts unwinding the blue fishing line from the empty FIJI Water bottle that it’s twined around. How apt. She puts a chunk of guava onto the fishing hook, makes sure the fishing line is stable on the stick, and tosses the line out onto the water. 

Trucks drive across the bridge next us, rumbling and bringing up clouds of dust. It’s windy. I ask Lei if the wind is good or bad for fishing, and she responds, “It’s sometimes good, sometimes bad.” She says the village women used to fish under the bridge, but the river has changed due to the floods. Today, the river is moving fast with the wind, and the fish aren’t biting. Lei is impatient. She switches tactics and decides to taga (another way of fishing), pulling out her fishing net and wading into the water. I trek along the river bank and follow her while she follows the current. 

She doesn’t taga for long before standing up in the river and announcing that this part of the river is no good for fishing. After she hops out of the river, we head towards the other side of the bridge. There are more dalo plants and tall grasses, and she points out the guava trees as we walk. We sit down again, now on the sand bank where the kids go swimming. 

Lei repeats the earlier ritual and sets up the fishing line once again with a new stick and a new piece of guava, picked up on the walk over to this side of the bridge. “Kana mai, Tavale!” (Eat here, cousin!), she shouts. She catches a fish soon after, and it’s a big one. Clearly, she should have just called the fish on the left side of the bridge “Tavale,” too.

“Maleka, Tavale! Tiko vakamalua, Tavale! Dua tale.” (Thank you, cousin! Stay still, cousin! Once more.) 

The sun continues to beat down, and we sit on the sand bank for another hour. I take advantage of the uninterrupted one-on-one time to practice speaking Fijian with Lei. I’m sweating, maybe melting, but happy to practice the language. Exchanging dialogue in Fijian is gratifying.

Tavale #1 ends up being the only fish Lei catches that day, but he’s enough. We eat steamed fish for dinner that night. It’s extra delicious, knowing the effort that went into catching the fish. Thank you, Lei, and thank you, Tavale.

I’ve decided - I’m collecting joy while I’m here in Fiji. I think I’ve been collecting joy all my life, but it’s especially easy to do while here. I’m reading a book by David Brooks called “The Second Mountain,” recommended to me by another volunteer. The book covers a wide variety of topics (many of which I may or may not agree with), and one thing he talks about is collecting joy: physical joy, emotional joy, transcendent joy. What a lovely lens through which to live life.

I collect a lot of joy on my birthday this year when I go fishing for the second time in Fiji. I live next to Rewa River in a different village now, my home for the next two years.

My new friend Salote borrows a canoe from a Momo (uncle) across the river, and we settle in for the ride. Five of us set out onto the river: Salote (20 years old), Titilia (5 years old), Di Veni (aka my Raivana, or cousin), Nana (mom), and me. I should say seven of us, since Jackie and Moody, two of the village dogs, join us on the journey. The wooden canoe is filled with empty plastic water jugs, which I quickly realize is for collecting and scooping out the water that seeps into the boat. There’s a leak somewhere, but it’s not big enough to sink us. I still eye the water rising in the boat skeptically as I continuously dump water back into the river. 

Salote uses a bamboo pole to row us downstream before stopping next to the river bank. Nana, Di Veni, and Salote take out their fishing nets and get in the water. I pull the canoe through the water as the women taga. As I swim behind the women, I get a closer look at what they’re doing, seeing more clearly what I only watched in the distance the last time I saw Lei do it. 

“The fish live in the mud,” Nana says. The women grab armfuls of mud and pull towards the nets that they stick into the river bank, waiting to see if any fish are caught. I stop swimming and anchor the boat to try for myself. The mud is squishy and heavy as I dig in deep and hope for the fish to come. I pull the net out, and there’s two fish! They’re small, but I caught them. 

Nana insists I take the Vo La (the name of the small fish that are frequently caught in the river) out of the net and tells me to hook my pointer finger in their mouths. I grew up with my mom cleaning and cooking fish at home, but I get a little squeamish touching the live fish. I’m screaming and laughing like a little kid, and everyone is laughing with me. I toss the two fish into a bucket with water and decide to return to pulling the canoe (with some relief). The women continue to fish.

We taga and float on the river all afternoon; the clouds drift by in the sky as we drift through the water. There’s something about watching clouds, and there’s something about slowing down in nature, that make it easy to be present.

I’ve been sitting in the canoe for a while when Salote tells me that Nana wants me to get back in the water - I ask why. “The fish keep jumping out of the net, and it’s because you’re sitting in the boat.” I acquiesce. The clouds start to tinge pink as the sun sets. It’s getting cooler, and we’re all getting tired. As we head back to the village, Titilia yells, “Bilibili! Bilibili!”  We spot a bilibili (traditional Fijian bamboo raft) floating in the middle of the river, and everyone gets excited. Salote rows us towards the bilibili and ties it to our canoe. 

We return the canoe to Momo with many thanks, before getting out of the water on the river bank next to our village. We review our catches of the day like kids in the U.S. analyze the candy they get from trick-or-treating: ilava levu (large fish), ilava lada (small fish), a couple tiny ura (prawns), a taimami (small crab), and a bilibili. I head up towards my house and take one last look at the water. My village sits beside Rewa River; it’s beautiful. Maybe I’ll try spearfishing next. 

Breakfast often consists of buttered bread and tea. Fijians are extremely liberal with suka (sugar) in their tea, while I prefer to just add a spoonful of powdered sucu (milk). Jaina (bananas) are a treat when we have them. There’s a papaya tree growing outside my window, and we pick the papayas that start to ripen. They're sweeter here.

Language class starts at 8am on weekdays. I haven’t taken any type of structured class in over five years, and I’m re-learning how I learn best. It’s different from work. 

Drau is Fijian for "leaf." Ulu is "head." Drau ni ulu is "hair" or literally, "leaf of the head." 

Beka is Fijian for "bat" (the animal). Bekabeka is "wings." Mata is "eye." Bekabeka ni mata is "eyelashes" or literally, "wings of the eye." And in English, the phrase "batting your eyelashes" is perfectly fitting.

There are a lot of wonderful nuances in the Fijian language that delight me. 

Lunch is usually at noon. I recently introduced my host family to pickles and have successfully spruced up our tuna salad sandwiches, which now consist of a can of Sun Bell tuna, mayonnaise, diced pickles, diced tomatoes, a dash of salt, and the juice of a couple moli (a small local citrus fruit that is somewhere between a lime and an orange). And maybe a garlic clove, minced, if I’m feeling frisky. I introduced Lei (my host mom) to sour cream and onion Pringles, too. It’s her new favorite snack. I’ve been itching to cook more, and now tuna salad sandwiches, with pickles and Pringles, are a regular occurrence. We ate tuna salad sandwiches three times in one week. Ratu (my host dad) loves them, and so do I. 

One day, for lunch, we learned how to make local Fijian dishes from Nei, another Peace Corps trainee’s host mom: rourou (taro leaves stewed in coconut milk), baba (taro plant stems), and ota (fern). Everything was picked from Nei’s nearby farm. I tried wai ni moli (moli-ade, similar to lemonade), made with freshly squeezed moli picked from the tree just outside Nei’s house. One trainee said it best - this is real farm-to-table. Yum.

We usually continue class in the afternoon, and early evenings are filled with a variety of activities: walking to the nearby village district school, making friendship bracelets with the kids, and chatting with the village ladies in someone’s house on an ibe (a large traditional floor mat made from dried, woven pandanus leaves). Meke (traditional Fijian dance) practice started up recently. There’s a performance coming up in December, but I’ll be gone by then, living in another village. It’s bittersweet to think about leaving.

I hop on a carrier truck one evening for a Reguregu (burial-related ceremony) in a nearby village. We all gather in a tavale’s (cousin’s) house to pay respects to an uncle who passed away. I had just met him the week prior. 

Mats are laid carefully in the house where the funeral casket is first placed. We then walk through the village, following the men who carry the casket to another house. One moment, the ladies are laughing over tea and cake, and in the next moment, there are tears. Loss feels the same everywhere. 

I experience a more celebratory ritual of mourning on a different day - the 100 nights ceremony. On the 100th day after a loved one’s burial, a traditional lovo feast is prepared. Ladies crowd the community kitchen; I watch as the bulumakau (cow) is butchered for the feast. Capturing the bulumakau was an entire ordeal the previous day. I didn't go, but I hear about it through another trainee who did. The retelling is both gruesome and fascinating. I think it would have been worthwhile to go. It feels important to understand exactly where and how my food ends up on my plate.

We have a river nearby with an old, now unused, bridge that we can jump off of. One weekend, I go two days in a row with other trainees and the village kids. The river feels like a long way down from where I stand at the top of the bridge. The kids leap over the edge, one after another, having done it countless of times already. I feel a flash of fear right before I jump. I do it anyway. The kids scream, I scream, and we run back up the sandbank to do it again. The sun sets as I float in the river and watch the kids toss around a rugby ball and play tag.

That same weekend, I gunu yaqona (drink kava) two nights in a row. The bilo ni yaqona (bowl of kava/grog) is passed around, “taki!” (one more) is called out repeatedly, and claps echo throughout the evening. Chasers get tossed around, eaten to get rid of the muddy, dirt-like taste of the kava: Chinese lollies (dried red plum), kopiko, gum, and lollipops. We (the trainees) think that salted, sliced cucumbers are the best chasers. It's a divisive opinion among the villagers, who all love sweets - cucumbers are not candy.

I cooked Chinese food one Sunday for my host family: 西红柿炒鸡蛋 (tomato and egg stir fry), 油菜 (bok choy), and 鱼香茄子 (eggplant with garlic sauce). We had it with rice, and Lei somehow found a pair of chopsticks in the house for me to eat with. She now brings them out for meals when she thinks I might want to eat with them. Using them makes me feel at home.

Weekends are often a toss-up; I never really know what I’m going to be up to. Three weeks in, I go to Suva for the first time. Ratu backs his car straight through the village field onto the road and drives Lei and me on a meandering trip into Fiji’s capital. As he drives around the potholes, we stop every few minutes so Lei can shout hello to someone in a nearby village and Ratu can wave to a tavale (cousin) waiting at a bus stop. We stop at a construction site so one man can use Lei’s phone to call someone. We pick up Elena, a girl who lives in our village, and bring her along to Suva, where her university is. We slow to a crawl so an uncle can hand Lei some cash through her open window. I didn't realize how much I missed the ocean until we drove by the waves crashing against the mountains.

It feels weird to sit in traffic. We unexpectedly drive by a Chinese school, which Lei excitedly points out to me. There are Chinese stores and restaurants sprinkled between the Indian restaurants and Fijian restaurants and fish and chips fast food stands. The culture here is a complex mix of indigenous Fijian, British, Indian, Chinese, and other Pacific neighbors.

We celebrate Fiji Day, Fiji’s Independence Day, on October 10th at Albert Park. Interestingly enough, Albert Park was named after Prince Albert, who was the consort of Queen Victoria, Queen of Great Britain at the time of the colonization of Fiji. October 10th is a dual anniversary, both the day Fiji was colonized in 1874 and the day Fiji gained independence, 96 years later, in 1970.

We visit the Fiji Museum in Thurston Gardens. It is small and compact, efficient with its space and full of archaeological artifacts and cultural history. My favorite fun fact that I learn: Fiji was the first country to sign the Paris Agreement. 

As the weeks pass, I get used to wearing long skirts and shirts that cover my shoulders. Modesty and conservative attire are important for both men and women in iTaukei villages, but especially for women. Men can wear shorts in the village - women cannot.

I get used to cold showers. Running water is inconsistent, and there are three different types of showers that I take here. Bucket showers are for when there is no running water, and we use the saved up rainwater to rinse. Squatting showers are for when there is some running water, and the PVC pipe that is waist-high gets a stream going so I can rinse while squatting below it. When running water is fully functioning, we have an overhead PVC pipe where a single stream of cold water comes out. Each night, I wait to see which type of shower I will be taking.

I get used to going outside without a hat or sunglasses, despite how sunny it often is. The head is sacred, and it is a sign of respect to never wear a hat or sunglasses while in the village, regardless of your gender or chiefly status. I'm excited whenever I get to wear a hat, which I can do outside of the village and in the city.

My host family has a fridge. I can eat fruit nearly every day. I have a box spring and an actual mattress. I have a mirror in my room. I can ride into the city in the back of Ratu's car if I want to, instead of taking a multi-hour, multi-transfer bus ride. This is what staying in a chief's house can look like.

I cannot go on a walk alone outside of the village. I cannot leave my bedroom without a long skirt on. I cannot swim in just a swimsuit; I need to wear a shirt and shorts in the water. I cannot play rugby in the village. I ask for permission and need to inform my Lei just to leave the house. This is what staying in a chief's house as a woman can look like.

My mindset towards privilege continues to change. Privilege exists in many different forms, here and back in the States. There are significantly different expectations and restrictions for both women and men in Fiji. Independence, autonomy, power, and respect all mean something different here. 

I appreciate any perspective that isn’t mine. I have only been in Fiji for six weeks; there is still so much to learn. 

Okay - in all honesty - it’s actually quite rainy here in the village I am staying in for training, but the sentiment is there. We flew into Fiji as the sun rose over the island, and it felt incredibly serendipitous.

I’m one week into training and two weeks into my time in Fiji. These feel like the longest two weeks I’ve experienced in my life. I think it’s a good thing. 

The village hall marks the entrance into our town. Kids are playing pani and rugby in the grass. The narrow, winding footpaths are interspersed between the houses and the hills. The Methodist church sits on top of the biggest hill in the village, where I go every Sunday along with much of the village for church service. 

We were welcomed into our village with a Sevusevu ceremony, a traditional Fijian welcome ceremony, which you can find yourself a part of when you first enter any village or town in Fiji. We sit on woven mats and clap once before receiving a bilo ni yaqona (bowl of kava/grog). It tastes like dirt and the earth. We clap three times after drinking, and a slight numbing sensation appears in our mouths - and our legs, from sitting on the floor for too long.

Fijians are warm and genuine. Lei (my host mom) fills my stomach with rourou and roti, freshwater mussels and fish caught in the river. I eat rice often. I love it. I sit in the back of Ratu’s (my host dad and the village chief) car as we go to pick up a pumpkin from the neighboring village for Lei to make curry. Nei (my host aunt) gives me sulus (traditional Fijian skirts) to wear, and she irons my dresses when she sees the wrinkles. The “coconut wireless” is thriving, and I hear about what one Peace Corps trainee ate for lunch and when another trainee has to run back to his house to change from shorts into pants and then run back again for his books.

Last Friday, we prepared gifts for a Tevutevu, a Fijian wedding ceremony, in a nearby village. Women streamed in and out of our house as they piled pillows and blankets and mats and mosquito nets higher and higher on the ground. Each was more colorful than the last. 

It was Mid-Autumn Festival on Friday, too. “Let’s try some mooncakes today,” said the Bula FM hosts on the radio. I miss home.  

The Tevutevu was vibrant. We piled into the back of a carrier truck and drove to Rewa Province with the sun shining. I watched as the women set up the gifts in the wedded couple’s new home. We sat for hours and drank yaqona in the village hall. 

We hiked to a waterfall on Prophet Muhammad’s birthday, a national holiday for Fijians. It was a relief to shed my sulu and the village elders behind for a few hours. I was the only one wearing my trail runners; pretty much everyone else slipped and slid their way through the mud, grass, and streams barefoot. Somehow 20 or so kids came along as we trekked through the dalo plants and pushed past branches. A speaker was carried, wrapped carefully in a plastic bag to stay dry from the rain, playing catchy Fijian songs. Jumping into the cold waterfall lake was the most refreshing thing I’ve done since arriving in Fiji. 

Learning the language is simultaneously overwhelming and also so rewarding. I learn 50 new words one day from the kids who run around the village and forget 45 of them by the next day. There is Bauan Fijian, the official dialect that I am learning in class. There is also the local village dialect that I am speaking in each day. I’ll eventually learn yet another dialect once I get to the village that I will be living in for my two-year service. 

Learning the culture, the customs, and the unspoken, underlying way life just is here, is fulfilling and enriching. It is also demanding and complex. There are deeply rooted beliefs and fundamental differences in Fijian and iTaukei culture that I am just beginning to understand. I am deconstructing my expectations, assumptions, and perspective on culture and gender every day. The concept of identity overwhelms me. I am trying to be intentional about letting things be and recognize that sometimes things happen in their own time.

I have only known my cohort and the Peace Corps staff for two weeks, but they are my lifeline and my sanity here. Two staff members showed up at my village to drop off some chairs one night, and it was an unexpected, delightful moment. I cherish my mornings with my trainee group as we sit upstairs in the village hall for class and impromptu yoga stretching. I am thankful for Ama, who is teaching us all about language & culture and has the best laugh ever. There is a level of trust, closeness, and solidarity among Peace Corps trainees and volunteers as we experience this together. Our conversations fill my cup back up when it starts to get empty.

I was in San Francisco for the past five years, and now I’m here, in Fiji, for the next two. I’m taking each day as it comes. Let’s see what happens tomorrow.