The Cloud
In the midst of all this sunshine and joy there was Gerald. You do run into many different kinds of people when you're on the road, and some stick out as special and extraordinary, and in Gerald's case these adjectives must be understood in the most negative possible way. He was a sad case - for himself, but even more so for the unfortunates that crossed his path and had to relate to him. He was a true pain in the arse!
He stayed in bure no 3 - one of the grass shack bungalows - where he spent most of his days, inside or sitting in the shade on his small terrace. I first encountered him at dinner on my first day at Waya lai-lai. His appearance was impossible not to notice, since he never wore a shirt and his 150+ kilos of pale, pinkish flesh shone like a lantern in the Pacific evening. Shouldn't he at least have worn a bra, in all decency? He was about 55, I would guess, his hair was grey and tied back in a pony tail, he had a fat lower lip and his breathing was heavy and wheezing, which strongly emphasized the total absence of charm. He sat down next to the two young German girls. His attention was clearly focused on the younger of the two, while she in return showed obvious signs of unease and disgust. The girls soon moved to another table.
When I asked around about his character I was told that he was Australian, that he had been here for more than a week, and that the manager was worried about the validity of his credit cards. When I had a bit of a chat with Gerald myself a couple of evenings later, he told me stories about how he hadn't always been this overweight - it was the result of a fairly recent illness; stories of his contacts in the film industry, and of how he was going to make big bucks starting a flower decoration business in New York City - a project well on its way. He was a notorious liar! The contradictions and exaggerations became just too obvious early in the conversation. Who was he fooling?
When I moved over to the big table he followed me, to continue the conversation he said. The conversation was forgotten immediately, however, when another twenty-year-old girl, Swedish this time, captured his attention. He didn't speak to her directly, only mumbled some with no real address in between his heavy panting, but again his focus was obvious. She endured his presence for one or two minutes before she politely "remembered" something she had to get in the dorm house.
The next day there was a bit of commotion at the resort. Bill, the manager, was back, and the police had stopped by: it was now clear that Gerald's credit cards were no good, and I picked up that this was not the first place where he had tried his stunt. Contact had been made with the Australian High Commissioner, and while awaiting further development the big man was grounded to his bure - the staff would bring food down to him.
This stale mate was still the situation when I left a few days on, but I heard later that he was finally taken from the island and back to Vitu Levu. For some reason his insolvency was not a strong enough reason to kick him out of the country, so for all that I know he might just have continued to another island, bound to cause more irritation and trouble, and having more jokes and remarks coming down behind his back. He was the ultimate haemorrhoid in Paradise.
More Sunshine
I should end this story by saying something about all the great guests at Waya lai-lai. A wonderful place like this naturally attracts wonderful people. Since it's not a luxury resort, and not a place known for wild back-packer gatherings, Waya lai-lai hosts a great variety of people: mostly young travellers, some older, some families, some couples - all in for a good relaxing time. To doze in a hammock with a book, to take walks to the top and around the island, to snorkel and dive and to enjoy the company of great people, both native and foreign. The kava, the sea, the singing - the Pacific.
