One Salt Water

Major Akariva Ragogo commands the 205-man contingent of the Republic of Fiji Military Force deployed to Timor Leste (East Timor).

I was to see Major Akariva Ragogo, the commander of the 205-man contingent of the Republic of Fiji Military Force deployed as part of the United Nations Mission in Support of East Timor. Major Ragogo is based at UN Peacekeepers HQ in Dili along with his support staff.

Before I could enter, I had to wait for my escort at the gate. Understandably, security is a huge concern and only authorized personnel can come and go. From where I was standing I could see this was a beehive of activity. At first, the sight of all those automatic weapons held at the ready was unsettling. At the same time, there was something oddly comforting about being around heavily armed soldiers wearing powder-blue baseball style caps with a circular patch that had United Nations embroidered across the top and the French Nations Unies along the bottom. Soldiers from Thailand, Pakistan, Japan and Jordan marched by. Land Rovers, minivans and "deuce and a halves" (2 1/2 tons trucks) all bearing "UN" in block letters on their hoods and doors, kicked up dust, belched diesel fumes and transported men and supplies from here to wherever.

My escort, Major Ilisoni Saladuadua, was the commander's aide-de-camp. He seemed oblivious to the heat and the dust and the humidity that had me feeling constantly wilted and in need of a shower. He was as dark skinned as the Timorese coffee grown in the highlands. At 6'3" and 200-some-odd pounds, he towered over the Filipino guards at the front gate-and everyone else within sight. He was the only soldier I had seen that day without a weapon. I suspect his size and his gold leaf clusters were authority enough.

At 52, Major Ragogo is one of the eldest and the most respected of the Fijian detachment. He has served abroad in peacekeeping missions at Charlie Swing Gate at the Lebanese-Israeli border, Checkpoint Alpha at the Egyptian-Israeli border, Camp Spartan at the Iraqi-Kuwaiti border, and at the Paguna mines in Bougainville Island and now, East Timor. Other members of the RFMF have served in the troubled African states of Zimbabwe, Somalia and Uganda, just to name a few. The Fijians, as they say, get around.

He did not fit my expectations of a no-nonsense career military officer. He quickly proved himself to be welcoming, hospitable and more than happy to make arrangements for me to head into the field to see his men.

Several days later, Majors Ragogo and Saladuadua took me by UN Land Rover to the main camp at Aidabeleten on the north coast of East Timor near the western border with Indonesia. The road hugs the shoreline along waters clearer than anyone could imagine, and we make our way through villages pinched between the sea and the lush tropical vegetation. Fishermen work in boats heavy with spiny lobster, octopus, blue line snapper, ulua, skip jack tuna and more.

Recognized throughout the world, the powder blue helmets signify peacekeeping service to the United Nations.

There were no tourists. The 23-year-long civil war that had ended in the fall of 1999 left the country scarred in many different ways. East Timor became the world's newest country barely a year ago on May 20, 2002 and there is still too much tension in the air for tourism to take hold.

While riding with Major Saladuadua, I begin to learn that he is as gentle and as kind as he is colossal. Military regulations require that all soldiers "in theater" must carry arms at all times. But the Major is conscious of the fear a weapon can instill in a population so recently terrorized by war. As a result, whenever we leave the vehicle, he drapes his M-16 carbine in a dark green camouflage netting to make it less obtrusive to any of the villagers who may be close by.

Several winding hours later we arrived at Foxtrot Company HQ at Aidabeleten. As we pull past the guard tower and enter the facility, I am surprised by the extent of the fortification. Australian peacekeepers had originally deployed here and they built something that seemed to speak to an imminently larger threat than anyone could imagine. I made a failed attempt at humor by commenting to Major Ragogo that a good name for this place might be "Fort Fiji."

The Major smiled politely and told me that it is a Fijian tradition to name their central camp. This one is known as Viseisei, named after the chiefly village in Fiji where legend has it that the first Fijians came ashore in their canoes. All of the people of Fiji are thought to have dispersed from this one sacred spot. Since their camp here is adjacent to the sea, the symbolism seemed to carry the day. Following a suitable renaming ceremony and blessing, a little part of Fiji came to this corner of East Timor.

Major Ragogo (front) and Major Saladuadua (rear) are taken by UN jeep from Dili to the Fijian outpost near the western frontier.

Captain John Logavatu, the duty officer of Foxtrot Company, briefs me on the logistical problems of keeping the western frontier secure from incursions by the pro-Indonesian militia just across the border. Most of the villages in the highlands are so remote they are accessible only by foot. Consequently, patrols head out from Viseisei for three to six days at a time.

While in the field, the Fijians have participated in the funeral ceremonies with the local people. Captain Logavatu sees this is as just another example of a Pacific way of peacekeeping: "Back home in Fiji when someone dies we would normally take food stuffs and items to present it for the family and it is the same thing that the boys are doing here."

The villagers oftentimes reciprocate, Logavatu says, "by passing on information or providing traditional food stuffs that you don't get through the supply chain, like taro and cassava."

When I return to HQ in Dili, I talk with Captain Ned Taito, the public affairs officer. We sit on the third floor of the burned out building that serves as the UN Peacekeeping Headquarters in Dili. I briefly recounted my experience at Viseisei.

"One salt water," Taito said softly. I glanced at the "Fiji" insignia on his right shoulder as he turned his boyish face and jet black eyes momentarily toward the ceiling. He finished his thought sounding more like an anthropologist than a soldier, "We use that expression to convey to the local people in the villages that we are all from the same source; that we are all from the Pacific." This is peacekeeping Fijian style.

After returning from foot patrols in the highlands of East Timor, exhausted Fijian peacekeepers sleep with weapons always ready.

He says that the success of the Fijian peacekeepers always returns to their unwavering commitment to their cultural values; "the bottom line for our guys," the captain offers with typical enthusiasm, "is if you are not sure how to act, act as if you were back in your village. Go to the chiefs, show respect for the elders, and treat the families like you would treat your own."

A moment later he was grinning as if he was about to give a way a military secret. He confided that as with their culture, they also take kava with them wherever they go. They have shared kava with the local Maubere villagers, the Samoan contingent, the New Zealanders and the Australians, to name a just few. He left me with the thought that regardless of where they are deployed, the Fijian troops always take their culture with them. "It's what we are, it's who we are."

But the cost of keeping the peace can be high and Fiji has paid the price. In Lebanon alone, 36 soldiers died in active service and two have died in East Timor.

They also suffer the absence of home. Major Saladuadua reminded me that he has served for 16 years in the RFMF and has been away from his home and family for eight of those years.

If you think Fiji's contribution to world peace is minimal because of its size, think again. As of December of last year, Fiji had a strength of about 3,500 regular military force and of that number over a thousand Fijians were serving permanently in peacekeeping missions around the world. Thus, as a proportion of their military service and population, Fiji ranks 4th in the world in its contribution to United Nations peacekeeping missions.

During my final conversation with Captain Taito, I recalled speaking with Majors Ragogo and Saladuadua weeks earlier and realized I had missed the importance of what they had told me then. Five of the initial Fijian contingent had come from the island of Vanua Levu. While patrolling the remote highlands, a few Maubere villagers overheard them talking. One of the villagers approached the Fijians and said it was nice that they could speak Tetum, the native Maubere tongue. The Fijians explained that they were merely conversing in their own dialect from Vanua Levu. When command received word of this unusual event, the five were reassigned to serve as translators.

Three Fijian soldiers shouldering M-16 carbines stroll down the main corridor of Camp Viseisei.

This seems to prove Captain Taito was right. East Timor and Fiji may be separated by 1,000 miles of ocean, but as fellow Pacific Islanders they come from "one salt water."