Column 2: Go to Jail

Special friends and family greeted me at the Honolulu International Airport as I departed for Fiji. Many would not see me for a year and surely their lives would go forward without my presence. I had traveled to and worked in various parts of the Pacific and Asia, but this project required a longer live-in requirement in Levuka. My expectations of tropical weather and conditions meant leisure and informal Honolulu “aloha” attire. Perhaps most important was lugging onboard a newly acquired laptop with primitive mid 1990s programs and no internet connection. A sketchbook and record journal for the trip were also essential. Unfortunately my pre-digital camera was unreliable but still served a functional purpose. With a few Fijian dollars in my wallet, a passport in my pocket and the assurance that a work visa would be provided to me upon arrival, I proceeded forward with confidence and dedication to the tasks ahead.

The +8 hour flight was tolerable and less stressful thanks to a yellow Sports Sony Walkman, another relic of the 1990s. Air New Zealand pumped New Age music into the cabin – a rather calming way to distract us from the miles of open seas below. Yet soon after my exhausting trip from Honolulu and arrival in Nadi, Fiji, Immigration officers whizzed me behind secure doors. No work visa? They asked.

Is there a problem? I innocently responded after being assured in Honolulu that a travel visa would be sufficient while my working papers were processed. Being separated from the many gawking tourists entering Fiji without incident was rather uncomfortable. Accused of a criminal act was not a familiar status. Wasn’t it clear that I was a wholesome Asian American professional, with no intention or reason, to sneak illegally into the Fiji Islands? What was my motive? What was the problem, indeed.

Wait here, said the solemn and most intimidating Fijian official. Three hours later a petite and decorous New Zealand Airline representative approached me, smiling. She reminded me of a blonde Karen Black in Airport. I expected her to say, “I can’t flight this plane”. Instead she uttered politely, we are flying you back to Honolulu.

Fly me home? I don’t think so. Call my Fijian sponsor. Ever since living in a household of conflicts and arguments, getting angry was not a comfortable knee jerk reaction to a problem. Instead I was rather expecting something to happen; in retrospect there were too many unknowns during the course of this exercise. My reaction was simple – get the boss here. If we need an international scene, well, I am ready for the American Consulate. Of course I was tired and half asleep when all of this occurred.

That first night was spent under house arrest in a nearby Nadi motel. An embarrassed and muscled Fijian policeman in khaki shirt and sulu stood guard. His chest and arms were enormous and athletic like a weight controlled, buffed and well tanned sumo wrestler. He had a heavy black mustache, piercing eyes and short cropped hair. All night the burly guard remained rigidly seated on the chair next to the doorway.

You will not run away, he said hesitantly with a caring and formal British-Fijian tone. Run away? I nervously chuckled. Picture this -- An Asian American escapee, hounded by the visa cops, fleeing the scene and vanishing cold case in the sugar fields of western Viti Levu as unsuspecting Indo Fijian taxicabs escorted tourists to their respectful resort havens.

No thank you. I do not think so.

Don’t be alarmed, I assured my partner in Honolulu via my only outside phone call, but I am under house arrest here in Fiji. How’s home?

Gerry Takano was reared in Honolulu, Hawaii and received his architectural education and early training in upstate New York andBoston. Gerry served as Hawaii’s National Trust Advisor and State ofHawaii Commissioner of the Historic Sites Review Board.

He currently resides in the San Francisco Bay Area and can be reached at gertkno@aol.com

He currently resides in the San Francisco Bay Area and can be reached at gertkno@aol.com