Tag: travel

• A World Grounded: Remembering 9/11 from an Airport Lounge

  Where were you on September 11, 2001?

  The question itself is a generational touchstone. For me, the answer is a blur of time zones and disbelief—a day that began with routine and ended in a world irrevocably changed. I was in transit, returning from a United Nations assignment in Algiers, Algeria.

  Following a week at a UN conference, my team and I were ready to head home. Our days had been filled with the meticulous work of high-level security: liaising with Algerian officials over probable threats and confirming meeting protocols. Between these demanding tasks, we stole moments to enjoy the city’s striking contrast of vibrant life against arid hills, savoring incredible Algerian cuisine with the Mediterranean as our backdrop. With the conference ending on the 10th, all that remained was our flight back to Nairobi on the morning of September 11th.

  That Tuesday dawned bright and cloudless as we left for the airport. Our route was circuitous: a short hop to Lyon, then to Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport, and finally, a direct flight to Nairobi. The first leg to France was uneventful. During the brief layover in Lyon, we retreated to the quiet of the Air France Lounge.

  I was headed for the bar when I noticed a crowd frozen under the TV monitors. “I’ll have a gin and tonic,” I said to the barman, nodding at the screen. “What’s going on?”

  His reply was calm, almost casual. “A small plane hit one of the Twin Towers in New York.”

  Drink in hand, I joined the silent spectators. A quick mental calculation: it was just after 9 am on the East Coast. An accident? It seemed improbable. Then, as we watched, a second plane carved a fiery gash into the South Tower. A collective, horrified gasp sucked the air from the room. “What the f***…” I heard someone whisper. This was no accident. This was a deliberate, monstrous act.

  Instinct and duty took over. I reached for my phone to contact my Desk Officer in New York. The line was dead. I tried another number. Then my in-laws. Then my friend, John Aaron. Nothing. A chilling silence had fallen over the world’s communications.

  Amid this unfolding nightmare, our boarding call for Amsterdam was announced. The disconnect was surreal—walking away from the horror on the screen to board a plane into a sky that suddenly felt menacing. As we taxied for takeoff, my mind raced through the implications. If they can hit the towers, what else is a target? The UN Secretariat… it’s a glaring symbol. An aircraft coming from the east could approach it undetected down the East River. Having had an office overlooking both midtown Manhattan and the East River, I knew a plane could cause massive damage to the UN Secretariat. The questions were endless, the answers unknowable.

  One certainty cut through the noise: the world was grounding to a halt. The moment the seatbelt sign flicked off, I was in the aisle, speaking in low, urgent tones to my team. “Listen up. Partner up. When we land, follow me directly to the KLM desk. Every flight will be canceled; hotels will be jammed. We need to move fast.” I gave the same measured warning to the diplomats traveling with us, masking my deep alarm with a veneer of professional contingency planning.

  At Schiphol, the captain’s announcement confirmed it: “All flights to North America are canceled. Other destinations may be affected.” We were the first off the plane, a determined convoy heading for the transfer desk. The airport was already descending into chaos. My fears were confirmed: all transcontinental travel was frozen, including our flight to Nairobi. By sheer persistence, we secured the last rooms at a downtown Amsterdam hotel.

  On the courtesy bus, I finally got a call through to our Nairobi office, then to my wife at our home in Runda. Her voice was strained. She had been watching the same horrific replays, desperately trying and failing to reach our family and friends in New York. She filled in the devastating blanks: both towers were gone; the Pentagon had been struck; a fourth plane had gone down in a field in Pennsylvania. The scale of the attack was beyond comprehension.

  We checked into the hotel, dropped our bags, and gravitated to the bar. There, surrounded by other stranded travelers, we sat in silent witness, watching the impossible images replay deep into the night.

  September 11th began in the calm of an Algiers morning, seared itself into my memory from a lounge TV in Lyon, and ended in the hushed shock of an Amsterdam hotel bar. We spent 36 tense hours there before the skies slowly, cautiously reopened.

  On this, the 25th anniversary, may all who perished from the events of 9/11 continue to Rest in Everlasting Peace.

  2026.09.10

• The Tax, the Ads, and the Audacity: Fiji Airways’ Double Standard

  The pieces are finally coming together — and the picture is deeply troubling.

  For over a month, Fiji Airways splashed two-page, full-colour self-congratulatory advertorials across our Saturday newspapers. Lavish spreads celebrating Revenue Management, Operations, and “commercial excellence.” All at significant cost. All while the government now tells us the national carrier is so financially fragile it needs a new tax — the Tourism Services Tax — to survive.

  Let that sink in.

  The Timeline That Exposes Everything:

  · June–July 2025: Fiji Airways runs expensive, repetitive advertorials praising its own internal departments.

  · July 12, 2025: The Revenue Department spread appears, boasting of “data-driven strategy” and “sustainable revenue growth.”

  · July 2025: CEO Andre Viljoen announces departure to Air Mauritius.

  · Early August 2025: Travel + Leisure ranks Fiji Airways among the world’s Top 10 airlines.

  · August 2025: Government announces a 5% Tourism Services Tax to financially support Fiji Airways, citing $40 million monthly fuel costs.

  · Industry backlash erupts. The Fiji Hotel and Tourism Association opposes the tax, warning it will hurt visitor numbers.

  · Government defends the tax anyway. Ministers Gavoka and Kamikamica insist Fiji Airways is “the lifeline of the Fijian economy” and needs the support.

  The Inescapable Contradiction:

  How does a Top 10 global airline — one confident enough to spend thousands on self-praise — simultaneously require a new tax on tourists to stay afloat?

  The advertorials told us one story: Look at our world-class teams, our data-driven excellence, our brilliant strategy. The government now tells us another: This airline is struggling, it needs taxpayer and tourist support, flights could be cut by 20–30% without help.

  Which is it?

  The Uncomfortable Questions That Demand Answers:

  1. Priorities: If Fiji Airways is truly in such dire financial straits that a new tax is necessary, why were hundreds of thousands of dollars spent on self-congratulatory newspaper spreads? Every dollar spent on those ads is a dollar that could have gone toward fuel, maintenance, or lowering fares — the very things that might make the airline more sustainable without taxing tourists.

  2. The CEO’s Legacy: The advertorials, timed perfectly with Viljoen’s departure, now look even more suspect. Was the airline spending scarce resources to build a farewell narrative for its outgoing CEO while secretly needing a government bailout? The optics are appalling: corporate vanity funded by public money, followed by a hand out for more.

  3. The Redundancy Problem: The Travel + Leisure ranking was independent, credible, and free. It validated Fiji Airways’ excellence better than any paid advertorial ever could. Yet the airline still chose to spend on self-promotion before the award landed. Now we learn they were simultaneously asking government for financial support. The arrogance is staggering.

  4. The EV Purchase: A “leading corporate leader” has already questioned the airline’s purchase of BYD electric vehicles. If the airline is so financially pressured, is this the time for fleet upgrades — even if “cheaper than the previous fleet”? Every spending decision deserves scrutiny when a new tax is being imposed on an industry already struggling with post-COVID recovery.

  The Government’s Defence — and Its Flaws:

  Minister Gavoka says: “Let Fiji Airways run Fiji Airways.” This is dangerously naive. When the public — through taxes — is being asked to subsidise the airline, the public has a right to scrutinise how that airline spends its money.

  DPM Kamikamica acknowledges concerns that Fiji Airways is “top heavy with its management” and suggests the board examine the structure. But why wasn’t this done before the tax was proposed? Why should tourists and Fijian businesses pay for an airline that may be overstaffed at the executive level?

  The Industry’s Voice:

  The Fiji Hotel and Tourism Association is right to oppose this tax. Tourism is already facing global headwinds — rising costs, changing travel patterns, intense regional competition. Adding a 5% tax on top of everything else risks making Fiji a less attractive destination. And for what? To fund an airline that, by its own advertorials, appears to be thriving?

  The Deeper Betrayal:

  The “We All Fly for Fiji” slogan is beautiful — when it reflects a genuine partnership between the airline and the nation. But what we’re seeing now feels less like partnership and more like entitlement:

  · The airline spends lavishly on self-promotion.

  · The airline’s CEO departs for a competitor, his legacy polished by those very ads.

  · The airline receives independent global recognition.

  · The airline then asks the government — and by extension, every tourist and every Fijian — to pay for its fuel costs.

  What Would Responsible Stewardship Look Like?

  1. Transparency: Full disclosure of Fiji Airways’ financial position. If a tax is necessary, the public deserves to see the books — not just ministerial assurances.

  2. Accountability: A public review of all discretionary spending over the past year, including advertising, vehicle purchases, and executive compensation. If the airline is “top heavy,” fix that before asking for more money.

  3. Humility: Instead of self-congratulatory advertorials, the airline could have used those resources to communicate honestly with the public about its challenges and its plans. Fijians understand struggle — but they resent being fed polished PR while being asked to pay more.

  4. Customer Focus: If the airline needs support, let it be framed around customer benefits — keeping fares competitive, maintaining routes, improving service — not around internal department pride.

  Conclusion: Trust Is Earned, Not Advertised

  Fiji Airways has achieved something genuinely remarkable with its Travel + Leisure ranking. That deserves celebration — from its customers and from the nation.

  But that celebration is now tainted. The advertorials, the CEO departure, the new tax — they paint a picture of an airline that wants praise, recognition, and subsidies, all without full accountability to the public that ultimately owns it and supports it.

  Minister Gavoka says: “Let Fiji Airways run Fiji Airways.” We should all say: Not with our money, and not without our scrutiny.

  If the airline truly is the “lifeline of the Fijian economy,” then it must act with the transparency, humility, and responsibility that such a role demands. That means no more expensive self-praise while quietly begging for bailouts. It means showing us the books, justifying the spending, and proving that every dollar — whether from fares, government support, or taxes — is used wisely.

  The Travel + Leisure award proves Fiji Airways can be world-class. Now it’s time to prove it can be world-class in governance too. And that starts with grounding the vanity projects and flying straight with the Fijian people.

  2026.08.24

• A Door Slammed Shut: The Price of Fiji’s Broken Promise

  The news from Washington lands like a heavy blow. Fijians seeking B1/B2 visitor visas may be required to post a bond of up to FJ$44,000. In a nation where the average annual income is a fraction of that sum, this is not a deterrent—it is a door slammed shut.

  As much as it pains me to admit, we cannot lay the blame entirely at America’s feet. We must look inward.

  For decades, too many of our citizens overstayed their welcome, treating US visas as backdoors to a new life rather than temporary privileges. We are a transient people—movement pulses through our blood. Our ancestors navigated vast oceans, and our modern families now span continents. The journey was always meant to be circular: leave, earn, return. But months dissolved into years, years into decades, and soon children and grandchildren were born in grey legal spaces, while the promise of home faded into a distant echo.

  Our economic realities have fueled this exodus. Limited job opportunities, stagnating wages, and the relentless pull of remittance income, have made overstaying an temptingly rational choice for some families. A relative in America sending money home can mean the difference between school fees paid or unpaid, between medicine and suffering. But rationality for the individual does not translate to wisdom for the nation. Each overstay reinforces a stereotype, and each stereotype hardens the policy that now punishes the innocent.

  The US has every sovereign right to enforce its borders. When a nation’s citizens consistently break the rules, tougher measures are inevitable. This bond program is born of data, not malice. Fiji now stands among 50 nations subject to the policy, including our Pasifika neighbours. But unlike wealthier states, we lack the economic buffer to absorb this. Our people cannot easily front US$20,000.

  Yes, the bond is discretionary; consular officers will review cases individually. But that discretion will be coloured by our collective reputation. Every previous overstayer is now a weight on the scales, tipping them against a young graduate, a small business owner, or a grandmother hoping to attend a family milestone. Family reunification—one of the most cherished reasons for travel—is now jeopardised. A parent unable to visit a child’s wedding, a grandparent denied the chance to hold a newborn—these are the human costs hidden behind policy language.

  The real tragedy is for the first-time visitor—the one who saved diligently, obeyed every rule, and simply dreamed of seeing New York or the Golden Gate. For them, this bond is a non-starter. America becomes the playground of the wealthy, while the ordinary Fijian—the soul of our nation—is effectively barred. Tourism and business exchanges, which could have fostered deeper ties, will now dwindle, further isolating us from global markets and ideas.

  American civil rights advocates have rightly criticised this financial barrier. But their criticism does not erase our accountability. We are authors of our own misfortune, one overstayed visa at a time. Collective punishment stings precisely because it is collective: the transgressions of a few become the burden of the many.

  So where do we go? The past is immutable. We cannot recall those who stayed. But we can begin a national reckoning. We must teach our children that a visa is a privilege, not a right, and that our conduct abroad defines the opportunities of every Fijian who follows. Diplomatic engagement with Washington may offer a pathway, but such appeals will ring hollow unless we first demonstrate genuine accountability.

  More fundamentally, we must confront the economic push-factors that drive overstaying. If we create meaningful livelihoods at home—through investment, education, and sustainable industries—the urge to remain abroad illegally will diminish. Our government must prioritise job creation and youth employment, so that leaving becomes a choice, not a necessity.

  To those who have overstayed: understand that your personal decision, however rooted in desperate hope, has become a chain upon your countrymen. And to the young Fijian dreaming of that first trip: I am sorry. The door is not fully sealed, but it has grown impossibly heavy. The land of opportunity has, for the average Fijian, become just a little more distant.

  We have no one to blame but ourselves. That bitter truth, however painful, holds the seed of a better future—if only we have the courage to learn from it. Let us turn this shame into resolve, and resolve into action, so that the next generation may reclaim the trust we have squandered.

  2026.08.02

• The Poison Tide: Why Fiji Cannot Afford to Wait Any Longer

  The evidence is no longer circumstantial. It is no longer whispers in police stations or rumours in village halls. It is crystalline meth washing up on the shores of Moce. It is cocaine packages drifting onto the reefs of Ogea. It is a shipping captain’s desperate plea for surveillance. And it is the measured, courageous voice of the Turaga Bale na Tui Nayau, Ratu Tevita Uluilakeba Mara, telling us plainly: our present responses are not effective enough.

  Let me say what needs to be said. What the Tui Nayau said with dignity, I will say with urgency bordering on rage.

  Fiji is losing. And we are losing because we are still having the wrong conversation.

  The Pattern We Ignore

  Read carefully what is happening on the other side of the Indian Ocean. In South Africa’s rural interior, Mexican cartels have done exactly what they are now attempting in our Pasifika waters. They scouted. They tested. They found corruption. They found weak enforcement. They found isolated communities without the tools to resist. And then they built.

  Four major meth labs linked to Mexican criminals in two years. Remote farms. Protected operations. Police who “don’t see” what is happening under their noses. A game of whack-a-mole that the cartels are winning.

  The Sinaloa Cartel does not need to defeat the Fiji Navy. It only needs to find one compromised officer. One corrupt official. One village too tired, too poor, too afraid to say no. And then the poison flows.

  The Tui Nayau has seen this coming. His proposal for strengthened village by-laws, for small boats and communications equipment, for a dedicated coast guard presence in Lau waters—this is not parochialism. It is strategic foresight born of lived reality. During the 1980s and 1990s, naval patrols were routine. Now they are reactive. Medical evacuations and search-and-rescue missions. By the time we respond, the cargo is already ashore. Already distributed. Already destroying.

  What the Shipping Captain Saw

  Uluilakeba Fleet’s social media post should have been a five-alarm fire in every government ministry in Suva. Instead, I fear it was scrolled past.

  Three to five-metre swells for three weeks. Drugs dislodged from “designated secured pick-up points at sea.” Packages confirmed as cocaine by testing in Suva. An astounding number of yachts and pleasure vessels operating with apparent impunity.

  Where is the Fiji Navy? That is not a rhetorical question. That is a citizen demanding accountability.

  These yachts do not sail thousands of miles across the Pasifika for the scenery. Not all of them. Some of them are tenders to a trade that is already inside our house. And if we do not have the maritime surveillance to know which is which, then we do not have sovereignty. We have an illusion of it.

  The State of Emergency Question

  I have written this before, and I will write it until I am blue in the face or until someone in authority listens.

  The advice the Prime Minister is receiving—that a State of Emergency will scare off tourists—is not merely wrong. It is dangerously, catastrophically naive.

  Tourism is our economic driver, yes. But what kills tourism? A decisive headline saying “Fiji Gets Tough on Drugs”? Or the slow, cumulative rot of a destination where backpackers are robbed, where families feel unsafe after dark, where the word spreads on social media and international news that paradise has a needle in its arm?

  Tourists are not fools. They will forgive a temporary, targeted, visible crackdown on criminal networks. They will not forgive a government that lets the poison spread because it was afraid of a bad quarterly report.

  Consider also the wider context. The turmoil in the Persian Gulf is already driving up airline tickets and hotel rates. An external slowdown in travel is coming whether we act or not. So why not use this window—while global attention is fragmented, while competitors are also struggling—to do what Fiji desperately needs? To clean house. To send a signal. To say: we are serious.

  A State of Emergency is not a panic button. Used wisely—with precision, with sunset clauses, with a focus on intelligence-led operations rather than blanket restrictions—it is a scalpel. It cuts out the cancer without killing the patient.

  The Existential Threats Are Converging

  I have said before that Fiji faces three existential threats: the drug crisis, HIV, and the impending energy crisis.

  They are not separate. They are the same fire burning in different rooms.

  The drug trade brings money. Money corrupts. Corruption compromises our health system, our police, our borders. Compromised borders let in more drugs. More drugs fuel addiction. Addiction fuels the spread of HIV through shared needles, through the sex trade that follows the narcotics economy, through the collapse of family structures that once protected our youth.

  This is not alarmism. This is epidemiology. This is criminology. This is what every country that walked this road before us has learned at unbearable cost.

  The Tui Nayau’s proposal for empowered village constabularies, for communication equipment and fuel, for a genuine partnership between the Vanua and the state—this is the only model that works. Because the state cannot be everywhere. But a grandmother in a village on Moce who knows every boat, every stranger, every change in the rhythm of her community? She is surveillance that no cartel can evade.

  Unless she has no radio. Unless she has no boat. Unless she has been told, by years of neglect, that no one in Suva cares what she sees.

  What “Start in Jerusalem” Means

  Real leaders start where the fire is hottest. They start in Jerusalem.

  Jerusalem is not Suva. It is not the Cabinet room. It is not the Tourism Fiji boardroom.

  Jerusalem is Lau. It is the child on Moala who finds a floating package and does not know what it contains. It is the young iTaukei man offered a sum of money that would feed his family for a month, asked only to “watch” a boat. It is the police post on an outer island with no fuel for patrols, no working radio, no backup for hours or days.

  Start there. Not with a press release. With boats. With fuel. With authority for village constables to act. With a coast guard presence that is sustained, not symbolic. With a State of Emergency that targets the networks, not the symptoms.

  The Cost of Delay

  South Africa did not wake up one morning with Mexican cartels operating four major meth labs on its soil. It happened slowly. One compromised official at a time. One isolated farm at a time. One prosecution that fell apart because a witness was “unavailable” at a time.

  The Tui Nayau is telling us that the same pattern is visible in our waters. He is offering partnership. He is offering the Vanua as a first line of defense. He is asking for the tools to protect his people.

  What possible justification is there for denying him?

  If we wait until the drugs are in every secondary school in Viti Levu, until our HIV rates rival the worst in the Pasifika, until a tourist is murdered in a deal gone wrong, until the ABC and the BBC run the story we cannot outrun—then no State of Emergency will save us. No PR campaign will restore us. No apology will bring back what we lost.

  A Challenge to the National Security Council

  The Tui Nayau is right. The National Security Council must take responsibility for this crisis. It cannot remain a coordinating body that produces reports. It must become a command structure that produces results.

  The Prime Minister must consider to do three things immediately:

  First, accept the Tui Nayau’s proposal in full. Not a pilot project. Not a feasibility study. Implementation. Boats, radios, fuel, training, authority. Now.

  Second, declare a targeted, temporary State of Emergency focused exclusively on maritime drug trafficking and the corruption that enables it. Sunset it in six months. Make it renewable only on evidence of results.

  Third, request immediate technical assistance from partners like the Australian Federal Police, the DEA, and the New Zealand Customs Service—not for them to do the work, but to help Fiji build the intelligence capability we desperately lack.

  The Generation at Stake

  Tourism will come back. Resorts can be rebuilt. Reputations can be restored. But a generation lost to addiction and criminal networks? That is permanent.

  Every young Fijian pulled into this trade is not a statistic. They are someone’s son. Someone’s daughter. Someone’s hope for a future that is not defined by poison, by needles, by the slow death of everything their ancestors built.

  The sea has long sustained our people, the Tui Nayau said. It must not be allowed to deliver poison to our children.

  We stand ready to assist, he said. We ask in turn to be given the means to do so.

  He has done his part. He has spoken with courage and clarity.

  Now the question is whether the rest of us—the Prime Minister, the National Security Council, Parliament, every Fijian who reads these words—will do ours.

  The tide is rising. Not the salt tide. The poison tide.

  We can act now. Or we can explain later to our grandchildren why we did nothing while the sea brought ruin to their shores.

  Choose.

  2026.06.08

• Sky-High Barriers: The Crushing Cost of Connection in Fiji

  Beneath the postcard perfection of Fiji’s emerald islands and azure waters, a quiet crisis unfolds in the skies above. For ordinary Fijians, the simple act of moving between islands has become a financial burden that tests the limits of possibility. Domestic airfares have soared beyond reach, transforming what should be a basic necessity into a luxury that divides communities and separates families.

  Fiji Airways Group chairman Nalin Patel, offers polished explanations—varied airport infrastructures requiring different aircraft, runway limitations reducing passenger capacity, the inability to conduct night flights. He speaks of operational complexities and efficiency challenges, all while the airline reports record-breaking profits. Meanwhile, a pilot from another Pasifika island watches from afar, and calls these excuses lame, noting that they fly longer routes for far less. The truth becomes clear: this is not merely about operational necessity, but about prioritization.

  What does it mean when Fijians cannot afford to traverse their own islands? When a mother must choose between feeding her family and visiting an ailing parent on another island? When a student declines educational opportunity because the flight to school can often cost close to the tuition itself?

  We have created a system where geography determines destiny, where the accident of which island you’re born on may dictate the opportunities available to you. The very wings that should connect our scattered islands instead reinforce their separation. The airplane, that marvel of modern connection, has become an instrument of division.

  The human costs are measured in missed funerals, unattended graduations, postponed medical consultations, and silent dinner tables, where absent family members are profoundly present in their absence. We are sacrificing our social fabric on the altar of operational efficiency and profit margins.

  There is a particular cruelty in the booking system that reserves flexibility for those who can pay premium fares, while the budget-conscious must plan months in advance for the privilege of affordability. Since when did spontaneity become a luxury? Since when did urgency become a premium feature?

  Fiji Airways speaks of challenges while posting profits. They describe infrastructure limitations while enjoying virtual monopoly power. They explain runway restrictions while managing the very airports that create these restrictions. This is not merely business—it is a fundamental failure of a nation’s duty to its people.

  The skies belong to all Fijians, not just those who can afford to traverse them. The right to movement, to connection, to family—these are not privileges to be purchased but essential elements of human dignity. When we allow economic barriers to rise higher than the clouds themselves, we have failed in our most basic responsibility to one another.

  Perhaps the question is not whether we can afford to lower fares, but whether we can afford not to. The true cost is measured not in dollars but in broken connections, abandoned opportunities, and the silent suffering of those who watch from the ground as the airplanes pass overhead, carrying only those who can afford the price of belonging.

  One day, we will look back at this era of exclusion and wonder how we allowed the skies to become yet another frontier of inequality. By then, the damage will be done—the relationships frayed, the opportunities lost, the communities divided. The time for change is not when the studies are completed or the profits secured, but now, while there are still connections left to save.

  The heavens should unite us, not divide us. Until we remember this truth, we are all ground-bound, regardless of where we live.

  2025.09.09