One afternoon, a little over a year ago, I received a more or less random-seeming email from a colleague that had no particular connection to either of our busy professional lives. The main purpose of such emails, containing links to the weirder corners of the Internet, is to waste time, and having some time on my hands that day, I followed the two links inside.
It was one of those frigid city days that make it easy to want to go—anywhere. How did the destinies of Israelites and the inhabitants of the most remote member of the British Commonwealth become intertwined? I then bought a ticket online—which was surprisingly cheap, considering that I would be traveling 8, miles, or one-third of the way around the circumference of the globe.
In Suva, we were met by customs agents and Mormons wearing skirts and sandals, and by a Tiki band. Live orchids hung over the bathroom stalls.
Jonathan, a diminutive, trim islander who sat next to me on the last leg from Vanuatu , introduced himself and inquired about the purpose of my journey. Before departing from New York, I called my bank and phone provider to flag my upcoming travel. Now there were right-hand-drive cars, the South Seas Evangelical Church and hundreds of other churches, the Hot Bread Kitchen, Club Paradise, a colonial-era Chinatown, distribution facilities for SolBrew, lackluster government buildings, shipping agents, and a university, along with the headquarters of Solomon Islands Broadcasting Corporation radio, and commemorative World War II sites.
The lazy, barefoot pace of things seemed governed by the chewing and spitting of betel nut, a mild stimulant made from the blood-red seed of the areca palm. At first glance, the city appeared locked in a battle between sidewalk betel-nut-spitters and store and restaurant owners who fought the rust-colored gloppy splatter with NO SPITTING signs—a battle that neither side appeared to be winning.
