Juliana Hung
Fiji Water¹
1.
Three hundred islands in the sun,
a the hum of the lali drum
a bumps us towards a wooden welcome of
a black pearls and cannibal forks. I am full from
this souvenir store of plastic hibiscus. Tucking
a the flower behind
my left ear is to be single, singled out compared to
a my right ear, taken, mistaken as a foreigner,
a mistaken as a citizen, I am split
a between wanting to buy one
thing, still leaving with
a 2.
a nothing, but something about Port Denarau Marina
a catches our attention on the way to Nadi Airport. Not to mention how our tour guide
a waves us off with dessert, not restaurant made
a but mother made, the foil tray where plantains bathe
a in coconut cream, so tart so sweet, a treat
a to be spooned by his family.
a I am still not attuned to the freshness of
3.
rain, how this South Pacific Ocean pitter patters,
a skitter scatters on top of the Great Sea Reef, briefly
a healthy to the best of its ability. The symphony of bright yellows,
a purples and pinks, the brilliancy from splashes of oranges and whites,
a this coral sight protects Suva, the capital of
wherever the break in the coral is the
a reef, the place I’ve been trying to reach. Please
a teach me how to swim by sky power,
a because even when one generation leaves,
the next two always come back to this
a 4.
a rain in the east, less in the west, the best resorts are
a raining with passports.
a Fiji Marriott Resort Momi Bay is a mouthful
of paradise, a slice of nature divided into
restaurants. Goji Kitchen and Bar for the bite-sized buffets,
a Fish Bar for a mahi mahi money catch of a day,
a Lagoon House and Bar for swimsuits that swim in
a not an ocean but a pool,
a not a pool but a spa, the woman painting my nails
a trails off about her favorite food: kokonda.
a Raw fish marinates in coconut cream,
a simply dice the onions and dice the tomatoes,
a sliced limes reduced to juice is all
a this dish needs to produce this staple, this mouth watering
a watered down version at this resort preportions
a and precuts the beauty out of the cooking class process, only
a mimicking how to scoop ingredients into bowls, but
a this lick is lacking in the flavor of what it means to be home,
a to be fried and boiled and spoiled
accommodation types include overwater villas that are crowded with
a golf carts for Uber drivers, but I wish to be a diver of the
a 5.
a rain hitting our umbrellas, hitting to join more
x rain on the ground. Puddles collect, this
x rain on our vacant seats, the van door shuts behind
x me. I buckle up for what’s ahead, looking at the
x vaya vaya trees, Christmas trees that
x burst in red flamed leaves,
x weave along Queen’s Road, we
x weave our day trip around the
6.
coast with no railroad.
x The railroad. The train on the railroad.
x The train on the railroad was packed with sugarcane. In front of
x our house,² sometimes the train stopped. Sometimes, the chain on the train fell
x loose, an excuse to pull the sugarcane.
x Green color, yellow color, or a dark purplish red. We shave it, we suck it,
x we eat whatever is available, wear whatever we sew,
x everybody knew everybody in
x 7.
x Ba,³ her hometown was
x Ba, her father passed away from his family,
x away from his work at the convenience store
x without a name, without a father
x she is with mother, with siblings to look after
closing shop for the night, sleep
x 8.
x tight beyond the aisle single files,
x beyond the displays and counters
x and countertops is their kitchen. We eat whatever is
x available at the folding table, unfolding sheets on the
x bed. The bedroom is conveniently upstairs,
x the bedroom without a nice mattress,
x maybe made out of straw. Juicy
x apples and oranges, orange colored mangos, there were pros to how
x everybody knew everybody, like when the weekend
x farmer trades her meal for his mangos, but he and she have to
9.
go. I hope St. Theresa4 stays open
x for non-elementary school children,
x for her grandchildren
x I hope St. Joseph5 stays open
x for non-high school students.
x She spends a childhood on island currency,
x an adulthood on a promotion to study at a university across the ocean
x in San Francisco. Waving to her father who would wave
x back if he could, would watch American cowboy movies with me
x as if he could rewind to when
he cooked egg sandwiches for his children,
x a fried egg between bread,
x and with her fire of a fever,
x he almost had tears in his eyes every time,
x not knowing what I had
x 10.
x lost once off
x the boat. Her first impression of San Francisco,
at eighteen years old, was how
lost but how safe, at what cost do we trust a new place?
x They accept for academics, can they accept
x more boats more seas more seats?
x Her first mission back to Fiji,
x at mother years old, she carries her daughter,
x carries her grit, asking the consulate
x to see what our chances were in bringing
x my family to the United States of
x California, San Francisco. In SFO,
x 11.
x my family of grandparents and parents,
aunts and uncles, they hustle as my cousins and my siblings
x board the plane to NAN.
x Though one generation leaves,
x the next two choose to come back
x 12.
x to her hometown by van, kind of like her bus
x from Ba to Suva, from St. Theresa to St. Joseph in an eight hour
x bus ride. Upon arrival,
all you want to do is open the window because it’s hot,
x you’re full of dust,
x your hair and everything,
x you just want to wash yourself in
13.
rain that washes the produce for Nausori Market,
x where curious stares twinkle like the sun that hits
x rain. The weather calms to pave way for us visitors,
x the guardians pause their game of splish splash soccer to
x part the red sea for our tourist wheels. Even the heavens stop the
x rain for the Church of Black Christ
x standing tall on top of gravel, cross strong against all
x 14.
x rain. Blurring the headlights, our windshield wipers are
x hyper against the blackness.
x Starry nights replace city lights, oh Mama,
x I might write about all of these things,
x about how you were right
x to remember their hospitality,
x you are right to keep a steady mentality
x regardless of where you are.
x I write to remember where we come from,
x 15.
x we, a family of fifteen who meet Ba
x by sun fall. My first impression of Ba
x at twenty years old is how we are greeted by moonlight.
x Classrooms should be sleeping,
x but her lights stay awake for us.
Locals loop us into their ceremony of kava, roots
x grounded and strained with water and
x drained into a deep wooden bowl,
x I scoop deep and drink deep
x to celebrate the collapsing of timelines
x defined in one of these
x seats. I sit in her chair
x at the top of the hill,
the room where she dawned her studies.
¹ Reference to both the movement of my poem and to the bottled water commodity that keeps the economy afloat
² Italics are quotes that were pulled from my interview with my grandma Mama.
³ Mama was born in Ba, Fiji. At 18 years old, she studied in San Francisco for college. During December 2024, I visited Fiji for the first time. In this research poem, I write about 1) the local perspective, 2) the tourism perspective, and 3) my perspective as someone who feels like I am both an insider and outsider to this place.
4 Mama’s elementary school
5 Mama’s high school
Juliana Hung is an Asian American author from San Francisco. She incorporates sonic texture into her poetry, weaving themes of personal experiences and generational expectations with the various strands of perspectives, places, and time. As a third-year student-athlete at Northwestern University, she studies communications, creative writing, and integrated marketing. Beyond academics and athletics, she loves to explore the city and cook nostalgic recipes.
