24I’m under the dodger, fixing my dilemmas into my journal, hidden from the sun that would evaporate us all. A local Fijian with his son and daughter putter out from the island in a long boat.
‘Cornelius, come up here. We have visitors.’
The father holds up an empty jerry can. ‘Do you have any petrol?’
Cornelius and I look at each other.
He answers quickly, ‘We need some water and have some laundry. We’ve a little petrol to spare, not much.’
The man smiles in agreement.
‘I’ll go in with them,’ I quickly offer.
Dad and Cornelius prefer to stay behind.
Simple houses hug a communal sandy yard, swept into arches and squares inside clipped twiggy shrubs around the edges. Large mango and breadfruit trees provide shade. Houses, some bamboo, some fibrolite and iron, spread out along sandy
