Patience! Patience! This is Fiji.

Thanks to The Captain, our trusty weather routing service, Commander’s Weather, now refers to The First Mate as “Nordhaven” Sue.  A Nordhaven is a motor yacht built for blue water undertakings. Sturdy, valiant boats they are, but that is not why The First Mate is so nicknamed. It is because motor vessels prefer ocean passages with calm seas and minimal winds. “What’s wrong with that?” questions The First Mate. What sane soul wants to be thrown about a boat for days on end with winds whistling through the shrouds? A boisterous day of coastal sailing is just fine. Boisterous DAYS of ocean sailing do not rate highly within her sphere. Call her what you may, The Captain has learned that if he wants a happy crew on a passage, a most beneficial arrangement for all concerned, he better look for those calm passage windows. He has cued Commander’s Weather into that same need. Laugh if you want, but The First Mate is gratified to know there’s another body, even if a somewhat disembodied one located somewhere in the state of New Hampshire, USA, on her side.

The passage to Fiji? The First Mate’s dream. The Captain’s torment. 6 days. Mostly we motored. Winds were behind us, but ever so light. Seas were calm, a gentle roll. The only negative is that there was no moon. Rising first near dawn and then later each 24 hours, nights were pitch black. Moving forward into the black void is an eery feeling that The First Mate finds disconcerting. So dark was it that for the first time in 11 years of night watches, she spent most of her time below deck. With nothing to see at ocean level, it was more reassuring to sit at the Nav Station watching the instruments. Every 15 to 20 minutes, she would climb up on deck, but other than checking the sail and the lines, there was nothing, absolutely nothing, nada, to see out there.

Captain and boat suffered through the passage. He broke a personal record with 4 books read while poor Avante surely broke a J/160 sailing record on our last day: 7 hours to go an impressive 16 nautical miles! Motoring through Nanula Passage into Fijian waters at 0900 Sunday morning, June 25th, we were not eager to cover the 23nm to the entry port of Lautoka. If we were to show up there within reasonable work hours on a Sunday, we might be forced to check in and incur the exorbitant weekend/after hours surcharge. We are a sailboat and sail we did in a gentle breeze of less than 5 knots. Ever so slowly, we slid up the waterway. Disliking the often sooty air of the industrial port of Lautoka, we managed to be just too slow to get all the way there before dark.  So, we anchored in Saweni Bay around the corner just before sunset with our quarantine flag dutifully flying.

Monday, June 26th –Eager to get through the multiple steps of checking into Fiji, we are motoring out the bay at 0730. The Captain contacts Lautoka Port Control to tell them we are coming in for clearance. He is told to drop anchor by the yellow buoy and to then dinghy ashore to the Customs Office. That we do except there is no yellow buoy anywhere to be seen. We anchor where we have in the past.  The place is hopping. Two loaded freighters have pulled in. Cranes are hoisting and moving containers. Trucks are on the roll. It is a busy place, but not so busy that dock hands don’t stop to wave to us and yell the Fijian word of welcome, “Bula”, across the waters. Smiling and waving, we yell back, “Bula, bula!” in return.

The steps upon which dinghy occupants must disembark are as we remember them. Made of rough concrete, one dare not get one’s rubber dinghy too close. A railing effectively blocks easy access at high tide, and the slimy, exposed steps at low tide make navigating them a challenge. In contrast to the enthusiastic Bulas we had just received, these steps pretty much tell you to “get lost”!

 

Seeing us struggling to maneuver our bodies, a waterproof bag of boat documents, dinghy and rope, a dock hand quickly comes forward to grab the painter or rope lead on the dinghy. It must be carried up and tied to a top railing which cannot be reached from the water level. It is not that any of this is hard to do. It is just cumbersome and awkwardly undignified. “Vinaka, thank you,” we say. He is delighted to hear that we are from the United States and hopes we will have a fine time in his country.

This is our third time to Fiji, and in most countries, arriving on their shores for the third time should mean one knows the ropes and can get through the officialdom of checking in with ease. Such is not the case in Fiji where always some rule or procedure has been changed. Seldom do the changes make sense. Often they appear contradictory, and what is the most trying is that they are not interpreted the same way by different local offices, different people or even the same person on any given day. Information gathering is challenging because two officials in the same office can give you two very different answers. In short, one never knows what to expect. We hope that with a lot of patience and a little bit of savvy, we will get cleared in within a day or two. That’s our goal as we set off to the Customs Office.

Savusavu was the port of entry we used on both previous entries. Though we have never checked in through Lautoka, we have used it to check out of the country. Thus, we know where to go for Customs. We enter a building that is more warehouse than government offices and march up to the unmarked, scruffy  door that is Customs.  Cautiously, we open the door, enter and sit down in mismatched, mostly broken chairs across from another applicant, Jack Howat, a fellow cruiser just arrived from New Zealand. A woman comes over to question whether we have our C2-C document with us. These 8-page forms are to be downloaded from the internet, filled out and emailed in 48 hours prior to arrival. Hefty fines are imposed if these documents are not received. The Captain had emailed ours in prior to leaving New Caledonia. When he had not received a confirmation, he re-emailed them by satellite phone. “Don’t you have them?” he politely asks. “They were emailed in twice.” This is not an uncommon saga. We have pieced together that what happens is that the documents are emailed to somebody’s computer in the capital of Suva. Clearly stating that Avante is going to arrive in Lautoka, the email should be forwarded on to Lautoka, but that never happens. The Captain does have the originals on his computer which he has with him and can show them. Can we print them? No, we cannot. He is given all 8 pages to fill out again.

We are then told that before anything else happens, The Health Officer must inspect our boat and us. The Health Officer is not here right now, but he should be here shortly. We have no option but to wait. So, we wait. Finally, the gentleman in question arrives. Yes, he is ready to come out to our boats, but as he has no launch, we must take him. No problem. Avante’s crew will take him out. When finished, Jack will transport him to his boat and then we’ll all meet back on the dock. On the boat, we glean from this distracted officer that he had been called away quickly from whatever he was doing to attend to these 2 yachts. It is obvious that he is feeling rushed and put upon. He gives a cursory look at the boat and, shrugging his shoulders, tells us that he forgot the fumigating spray he is supposed to use on all boats entering Fiji. Fine with us. Any animals? No. Are you sick? No. We could be near death, but he would not have noticed. He sits down to fill our his papers and stamp his stamps. Done, but there is the slight matter of the $179.00 Fjian we owe for this service. Okay, but since we have just arrived, we have no Fijian money. We need an ATM. He will see we get taken to one. A phone call is made. A car meets us on the dock where we all pile in to be driven to an ATM. Exact change is something these government offices do not have, and they do not accept credit cards. The ATM machine doles out only large bills so The Captain must enter the bank to stand in line for smaller denominations. We stand around on the sidewalk for over half an hour making small talk while The Captain slowly progresses through the bank line. Nothing happens fast around here, and standing in lines is expected.

The Captain starts to give the money to our Health official. No, not to him. Give it to the driver of the car. Him? Who’s he? No uniform. All he did was drive the car and sit in it while we all waited. Feeling like this is more scam than official payment, the money is handed over, but it is legit. We are driven back to the Customs Office. Retaking our rickety seats, we sit and wait.

While The Captain continues to laboriously fill in the 8-page C2-C, Jack is cleared through Customs. Our turn next. The Captain hands in the C2-C form. The officer fills out his forms and stamps all and sundry. We are cleared into the country, BUT we cannot go anywhere until we obtain a Cruising Permit. Once that is obtained, we are to return to the office where a Coastal Permit will be given. Then and only then will we be free to cruise.

This Cruising Permit we are in pursuit of is issued by the Fijian Tribal Council whose head office is located in the capital of Suva. To us, it appears to be a way to placate the many small native villages and their chiefs. Issuing these permits gives them a role in government. They are important. That’s okay. We understand, but what a bottleneck it creates! Imagine that the Indian tribes in the US said that nobody could cross their lands without a permit issued by them, and that permit comes out of one central, poorly staffed, undertrained, and convoluted office.  The marina in Savusavu helped us get this permit the last two times we checked into Fiji, and it always took several days. This year, however, since we are not in a marina, we are on our own. Resigned, we ask where the local Tribal Council office is located. A form with the name printed across the top is given us. We inquire about an address. Just show this to a taxi driver. He’ll know where it is and will take you there.

By this time, it is getting close to the  lunch break. Jack, who also needs this permit, had earlier suggested that we all meet at a little cafe in town called the Blue Ginger. Wonderful fruity smoothies and great hamburgers are on the menu. We do just that and, along the way, stop by the local Vodaphone office to reconnect our phone and internet. The Blue Ginger is heaven compared to the dinginess of the government offices,

At 2:00, we head outside to hail a taxi. We show him the name of the office and are taken across town to be dropped off at an obscure doorway leading up a flight of stairs. Is this it? Are you sure? Up we trod with minimal confidence to take a seat in one of the many rows of seats. We look like fish out of water, for we are the only non-Fijians in the room. Feeling like all are wondering what we’re doing there, we sit and wait. A Fijian comes over to The First Mate and shakes her hand. She smiles and says Bula. Then she is told to remove her visor. Her visor? Yes, she had not keyed into the fact that she is now on tribal grounds where protocol dictates that one remove one’s sunglasses and head coverings. Women are to be dressed discreetly. Thanking her stars that she has a blouse with sleeves on over her sundress, she respectfully removes her visor. Later, sitting there with nothing to do and looking around the room, she notices a sign which should have been front and center upon entering the room but was not.

The captains decide that the best way to handle this is to go up en mass when it is our turn. We are called up, finally, only to be told that we are at the wrong place.  There are 2 Tribal Council offices, and we are at the wrong one. Where is the other one? He doesn’t know the address, but he writes down the name of the building for us. Give this to a taxi driver. He will take you there. We are dropped off at this second office only to discover that it is one we have been to before. This is the office one must go to for a permit that allows one to fly into Fiji with a one-way ticket as one must do when planning to exit the country by one’s boat. We even recognize the woman at the window who shakes her head and says that we again are at the wrong place. Why did they tell you to come here or why did we get dropped off here? We don’t know. Taking us outside, she points down the street and says that it’s not far, but unable to give us an address and befuddled as to how to describe the building and location, she hails a taxi. Tells him where to go. Off we go. Two blocks we are driven. Up a driveway and around the side of a building. Pointed in the general direction, down a hall we march to the correct office. We have arrived! Inside, a tall, well-spoken Fijian writes down the information he needs: name of boat, number of passengers and country of origin. This will get emailed to Suva. He tells us that maybe the Cruising Permit will arrive later this afternoon. Maybe tomorrow. He has our emails and will contact us when the permits arrive.

Frustrated, we venture onward and  cross another item off our to-do list: a trip to the municipal market to get fruits and vegetables. Returned to Avante and determined not to wait out the time anchored in the noisy, dirty harbor, we motor around the corner back to Saweni Bay. We have slim hope of hearing anything later today or tomorrow. If nothing is heard, our plan is to return to the office in two days.

Wednesday, June 28th – As expected, the air waves were silent. At 0730, we are again motoring over to Lautoka. By 0920, we are sitting in the Tribal Council office where, fortunately, the official we initially dealt with is in attendance. He recalls us which we take as a good sign. Nothing has been received he informs us, but he will check. Emails are sent. Phone calls are made. We don’t know what is transpiring, but it becomes obvious that the email requesting our permit cannot be found. It is resent. A little later, after more emails and phone calls, he tells us that he has found someone who will process our permit right away.  Our request is sent to yet another email address. Our official tells us that he is working on both ours and Jack’s. Multitasking! We are impressed. Can we give Jack his document? No, we are setting sail immediately, and Jack is off visiting friends. Sitting in chairs in front of his desk, sunglasses and head coverings removed, we wait and wait. We dare not leave, for then any forward movement on this thing might stop. It is obvious nothing would have gotten done if we had not physically returned to the office to force the issue. About an hour and a half after our official found that someone who would take action right away, the permits magically appear over the air waves. He prints them out and hands ours over with a huge smile. Vinaka, vinaka! We quickly exit, for we now have to get ourselves back to the Customs office before they close for lunch.

How long did we wait? Two and one half hours! It is mind boggling that they do not have this procedure set in stone, for every single boat entering the country needs a Cruising Permit. Emails back and forth are no-brainers these days, but if the right hand doesn’t know or inform the left hand of what it is doing, complications arise. It is not that these people are uneducated or that they do not care. For the most part, they are all very helpful. They are just caught in a bureaucratic maze that is totally overwhelming everyone’s best efforts.

 

 

Walking back to the dock, we pass long lines of trucks loaded with sugar cane. Fiji is a major producer of sugar, and it is the processing of these canes that adds so much soot to the area.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Closer to the dock, mountains of wood pulp are waiting shipment. With all the freighters coming and going and all the commercial activity on land, Lautoka Harbor is a hub of activity for the area.

 

 

 

 

 

 

All is not scruffy and dirty around the port. The traffic circle leading to the front entrance is impressive and well-maintained. One might think they would want to do the same to the government offices through which every incoming and outgoing business must transit, but funding has not been allocated in that direction.

 

 

We reach the entry to the port itself, and wave to the guards as we walk through the gates. While The First Mate hangs back to take her photos, The Captain hurries on to the Customs Office. Gratified that the official we need is at his desk and receiving applicants, The Captain presents our Cruising Permit and is given yet another long form to fill out.  A half hour later, all forms filled out, stamped and taped together, we exit. With our Coastal Permit securely sealed in a waterproof pouch, we load ourselves back in the dinghy and race out to Avante. As quickly as we can, the dinghy is stowed and Avante is set to go. As we motor out the harbor entrance, a boat is heard over the radio hailing Port Control requesting clearance. Shortly, we see a sailboat flying a yellow quarantine flag entering the harbor. We wonder if they will find the yellow buoy that we could not, but more than that, we wish them luck and lots of patience.

For the next 10 days, our plan is to explore a chain of islands called the Mamanucas. With granddaughter Berlin arriving on July 8th, new anchorages and new adventures are sought to show her. We have some ideas. How they work out will be described in the next blog.