Each training village seemed to have multiple farewell events planned and I was able to go to a few of them besides my own. I was touched by the fact that at each if these events, some formal remarks were given that always included a plea for forgiveness from the host communities for any failings that we may have experienced as trainees in their care. This is a remarkable attribute of the Fijian people. Their culture and faith imply that they fall short in kindness and generosity when nothing could be further than the truth. Fijians willingly and openly share everything with each other and strangers alike. I found my sadness at the end of this chapter came from my sense that I had missed an opportunity to match them in this aspect. I felt I should be asking them for their forgiveness.
My final language exam surprised me. I was expecting to duck in just under the bar, that is, enough to pass (a rating of “novice”). Somehow, I managed to score two levels higher. I’m not being modest - I’m not sure how this happened. Well, actually, I have to credit my host father for spending time with me the night before the exam and teaching me a few sentences that would demonstrate that I had a certain level of confidence with the language: things that weren’t taught to us in the language sessions but would show that I’d picked up a few things from living in the community.
In Fiji, whenever you meet someone they ask you 4 basic questions: What’s your name? Where are you from? How old are you? Are you married? The other morning, I was riding the bus to Suva (the Capital city) and a young man hopped in, sat next to me and rattled off the questions. I answered as usual: Tevita (Fijian name), Washington DC, 46, no. In turn, I asked him his name and where he was going (that’s the 5th question, by the way, or most likely the first question you get from anyone who already knows you and therefore the answers to the other 4). He said he was going to the university. Amused to be playing this game, I asked him how old he was: 18. And if he was married: a giggle, then no. “Good,” I said, “you’re too young.” We both are, I thought – and may have even said that out loud.
That got me thinking. I knew those standard questions would be part of the exam. And I knew the training manager who was going to be giving the exam was a single man in his 30’s – a very eligible bachelor here in Fiji. Now as part of the exam we are encouraged to ask questions, not just simply answer the ones asked of us, to demonstrate that we can have a conversation. I asked my host father to teach me how to say “Don’t rush. We’re still young.” So I was ready for the “are you married?” question. But as the exam progressed, it didn’t come. At the end, the examiner asked me if I had any questions. Yes, Filipe, I said (in Fijian, naturally), “O iko sa vakawati?” “Sega,” came the reply. Then I waited.
Felipe: “O iko?” (And you?) Aha! Here’s my chance!
Me: “Sega. Se bera.” (No. Not yet.)
Filipe: “Oh. Oi.” (Oh. I see)
Me: “Sega na lega. Kua na vaka totolo. Se gone. (No worries. Don’t rush. We’re still young)
Score! He laughed, brought the exam to a close and scored me at an “Advanced – Low.” Lialia (crazy!)
And so training ended on that high note. We spent the rest of the weekend in our village saying farewells (dinners, church services, grog sessions*) and packing up our things for the next phase of the adventure: Swearing in and transitioning to site.
*If I haven’t yet written about grog, google it (Fiji grog, Fiji kava, or Fiji Yagona).
No comments:
Post a Comment