Tevoro

A short walk along the sugar fine sands brought me to a log structure with a roof fashioned of roughly plaited coconut leaves. In chalk, on a broken sandwich board, read ‘Lucious breakfasts and Loaded cocktails.’ It was a hot day, as it always is in Fiji, so I stooped under the hanging leaves and took a seat. The breeze off the Pacific gave much respite from the morning heat, I shut my eyes, finding the peace I’d come for. “Bula!” A man rushed in, stumbling on a plastic chair shouting the Fijian greeting. The linen shirt he wore looked like the only shirt he owned. He looked at me “Every time I try and match their Bula’s! I never succeed. You know why I never will?” I didn’t really understand what the frantic man said. But he continued. “Sincerity. I don’t believe any of us in the West ever mean ‘how do you do’ when we ask ‘how do you do.” The Fijian waiter wore a broad smile as he cleaned a glass, filled it with water and passed it to the man. The man thanked the waiter and turned back to me. “How are you? Hot day. I don’t drink anymore you see.” I didn’t see and wasn’t exactly sure when one sentence ended and another began, so I let the man go on. “Lovely place Fiji, can get away from it all, tune in to Fiji Time.” Fiji Time was a concept I’d heard a few times since arriving. I’d heard ‘Tofino Time’ in Canada and ‘Broome Time’ in Australia. A phrase used by locals in laid back towns, each one thinking it to be unique to them. 

“What do you do?” The man asked me.

“I work in finance, just on holiday right now.” I replied. Seeing the man wanted to be polite but had no more questions for me, he continued “I was in the military. Special forces. Not a good place 10 years ago. You probably saw the news.” 

“I did.” I replied solemnly. “A different world. What men can do to each other. Many a mission I undertook there, we stormed a Taliban stronghold in a village once, burst into a room, it had a small cage in it, with a man folded up inside like he was made of plasticine. We quickly realised he was one of ours. This guy had bruises bigger than I’d ever seen all up his legs from iron pipes, a favourite of the Taliban. Every single one of his teeth had been removed, can you imagine what that would feel like? They’d put plastic bags over his head until he confessed to God knows what. I had no faith this guy would make it after we got him out of there. Not medically you understand. His injuries could heal, his legs could gain strength and he could get some fake teeth put in. But the other injuries he sustained, the ones you don’t see, that would be a problem for him. It was on to the next mission for my unit. Success. Move on. Just another day.” He had a fractured pattern of speech, I felt my brow furrow whilst trying to follow him, but stopped as fast as I realised so as not to upset him. He swiftly changed the subject “I used to have a business myself too.” I smiled at the fact I’d never claimed to have one myself. He wore large reflective sunglasses that masked not only his eyes but a large portion of his bony face. “Yep, used to run irrigation for farms. Hard work. We got muscled out by the big dogs, difficult for some small owners these days. I sold up. Moved out here. Couldn’t think of a better place to be. Gives a man peace.” He raised his empty glass of water toward me and then slammed it on the bar unnecessarily hard and wandered off. I longed for this peace the man spoke of. “How did you fair?” another American, this one topless, leant over from the table next to me. “You survived?” he inquired again. He spoke out of the corner of his mouth. I couldn’t tell if he had deliberately not rubbed in the sun lotion on his face or not. “I’m sorry?” I said. 

“The crazy fella, he caught me yesterday. Took me a while to get away. I don’t know why these guys don’t move him on.” He raised his voice so one of the waiting staff could hear. 

“I guess they don’t see him as a problem” I said, hoping it would be the end of the interaction. 

“Well he’s a problem for business. I own some businesses back home and I can tell ya, I wouldn’t allow it.” 

I allowed him the last word, and raised my eyebrows as I took a swig from my cold beer.

The pale American stood up shortly after and paid at the bar. The waiter, who had a handwritten name tag that read ‘Bill’ came over to collect my empty bottle.

“That man is ok, just different.” he said.

“Who, the topless guy?”

The waiter let out a small laugh and hid it with his hand as if it were illegal. 

“No, no. Mr. John. He comes through a lot. Some of the guys say he has crossed paths with a Tevoro, that's why he is like that.”

“Tevoro?”

“A devil.” 

The Fijian didn’t use the easy and convenient language such as ‘crazy’ and ‘sick’ that we may use back home, I wonder if we do it to distance ourselves from these characters, so as to not claim any social responsibility for their well being as our lives are cluttered with tasks and errands as it is. These warm hearted people don't seem to have that problem. I looked to the beach and saw another waiter neglect his bar duties as he played with some passing kids he was familiar with. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps ‘Fiji Time’ exists. The tourists see it as a niche experience in contrast to their lives back home, a pleasant respite, but only for a short time, as I often hear them say ‘Oh I couldn't live like this though.’ Fiji Time is more than taking things easy, it's an allowance of time to be allocated to the core values of people, at least, their core values. Family and community. I often see my phone is riddled with blogs of how to be more present by trendy neuroscientists and successful celebrities, Fijians have no such need for these blogs. Bill snapped me out of my ruminations as he said “He’s worse at night, I don’t think Mr.John sleeps at all.” A Mediterranean looking couple ambled in off the beach and Bill excused himself to go and assist them. I looked down at the brown glass of my bottle and wondered if it was perspiring more than me. The hottest part of the day had arrived and so I returned to my room to lay like a starfish, directly under the ceiling fan. I awoke later than I had planned, it was 7pm. I was hungry so headed out to the same bar, not wanting to venture further. Before I arrived at the bar I heard a strange noise coming from the ocean and wondered if it was a dog in distress. I followed some shallow craters in the sand that I took for footprints to a pile of clothes. Looking up, and squinting through the fading light saw a man waist high in the breaking waves, naked. The noise came from him. At my feet was a heavily weathered linen shirt and a full set of dentures.