- The crane is still broken
- We arrive in Lautoka
- Eric and I go exploring, and are disappointed at what we see
Pictures:
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| Sunset outside Lautoka |
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| Lautoka harbor |
I awaken five minutes before my alarm goes off. I swear, I heard my dog whining, like she does in the morning when she needs to go outside. After a quick shower and dressing, I head to the mess for breakfast - 1 egg, 1 sausage, and 2 cups of coffee, with a couple glasses of milk and a slice of toast. Harvey is finishing his as I enter, and points to the island off to the starboard side. "There's another one on the other side, as well," he tells me, before heading up to the bridge to check the ship's position.
After breakfast, I take my customary place on the deck, reading. The sky is very cloudy today, the waters charcoal grey, but fairly calm, with only slight gusts of wind. At 0915, the chief engineer joins me, leaning on the rail. "Better to be a passenger than crew, yes?" he asks. "Some days, yeah," I answer. His hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and on his hands are white woven gloves with blue rubber grips. "Is the crane still broken?" I ask. "Not broken," he replies. "The hydraulics that operate the crane. The return line pressure should be 28 kilos, but instead it is showing zero." He complains that the newer, more automated systems always seem to have more problems. "It's never the pumps or the motors. Always the sensors that are bad," and I wonder if that is the case today. He goes on to tell me that they are limited in what they can do on the open sea. "If the ship is rolling more than five degrees," he says, waving a hand back and forth in illustration, "we cannot move the cranes." I nod my head in agreement. A 60-ton crane flailing around wildly would be a very bad thing, and even worse with a loaded container hanging off its hook.
At 1720, I awaken from my afternoon nap. Not much has happened since this morning, except that when I awaken, we are anchored outside the port city of Lautoka, with the pilot on board. Word has it we are waiting on the evening currents before we head toward the shore. We glide slowly, gently alongside the dock, doing a 180-degree turn around a sandbar island populated with dense scrub. There are bugs all over the outside of the ship, something about the size of a lightning bug, but more resembling a cockroach.
After mooring, I find myself on E deck, talking with the electrician. "I am waiting for the third crane operator to arrive. Even when we use the ship's cranes in port, we use shore operators," he tells me, pointing to the men assembled on the dock. "Maybe he is one of them." I learn from him that the number two crane is still acting up. They have borrowed some parts from #3, and he has to watch its operation to make sure it is still working. The chief engineer is assigned to #2. He explains that it got stuck, due to overheating, in Papeete. "We have only two containers to discharge here, and then we move up further. If number two crane is not working, maybe we stay another day while they arrange a shore crane." I sure hope not. Lautoka has only a few lights scattered here and there. Probably just the one strip of road along the shore. Doesn't look any bigger than Frankewing.
At 1905, as I am updating my journal, I hear a loud pop, followed by a louder one. I hope it wasn't a hydraulic line bursting.
After dinner, Harvey decides to turn in, but Eric and I venture into town. Lautoka is unimpressive, especially on a Sunday night. They roll up the sidewalks at 8:30. There are a few Chinese restaurants still open, but the only place to get a beer is a "backpackers hotel" called Renee's, on a side street just off the main strip. It's a real dump of a place, and I'm afraid of what else they might try to sell us. An old, balding, fat man sits by the entrance. An old, ugly, fat woman sits to his right, massaging his calves. He calls to another old fat ugly woman, who sits down to his left and begins to massage his hand. A large black man is standing at the bar. He twists his head sideways over his shoulder and spits a long stream onto the floor. Three guys come out of a room in the hallway, arms loaded with empty beer bottles. They are about my age. The one in the yellow soccer jersey is smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, or at least that's what I think it is.
About a minute later, I see two girls walk out of the room to smoke in the hallway, both of them wearing long yellow floral print skirts and dark hooded sweatshirts. A skinny black man approaches our table. He is in his mid-to-late fifties and wears a black ball cap with a black polo shirt, both fairly new and in good condition. He has a band-aid under his right eye, and I wonder if it's really a cut, or if he is just imitating Nelly. I decide not to ask. He asks where we're from, then says something I don't quite understand. He laughs, slapping me on the back of the shoulder. "This is Fiji. Always happy," and wanders off to the bar. Eric and I both agree not to stay for a second beer.
We head back to the main street and walk up further, but it's a quarter to ten and the only place open is a little 24-hour Indian supermarket. We pass one of the young guys from Renee's, and although he smiles at us, there is something cold in his eyes. We head back to the ship. The trip is thankfully uneventful, except for being approached by three or four Fijians. "You want girls?" they ask. We don't respond. As we pass the gate, Eric gives the guard a pack of cigarettes - payment for the one he borrowed on our way out. I decide that tomorrow I will buy a pack as well to give him.
Back at the ship, the number two crane is still not working. I poke my head into the ship's office where I see the electrician flipping through the pages of some big equipment manual. "Did you go ashore?" he asks. "Yes," I answer, "and don't feel sorry for yourself if you're stuck here fixing the crane. There ain't a damn thing out there worth seeing."
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