Why Sleep on Sand?

“I’ve lived on sand and felt the winter sea dew

And watched this country living wing on by

The city lights grow closer to my garden

As many classic moments ride on high.”

Kalapana

We lay with our heads together on the glowing sand, the Fijian waters gently patting the nearby shoreline, all of us staring up at the Milky Way with each star popping from the immensely dark sky. The talk drifted to whatever came to our minds and the conversation was relaxed and curious as we learned about our very different lives. After talking about New York City and the immense buildings there, unimaginable to my hosts living in a coconut vale, the constantly smiling Naqau suddenly said in a sad voice that I will never forget, “Marika, I am sorry that you have to live on the floor here and we are so poor, you must be uncomfortable.”
I had taken a mail boat out to their island with the hope of finding a surf spot on the other side. On the mail boat, a man from the next island up the chain and I were talking, he wrote me a note to the village chief where I was planning to go. Soon we were there and I was dropped off to wade chest-deep towards a village of coconut homes called vale, smoke rising from small areas along the interior of the small island. As I came ashore, the entire village emptied of their vales and came running to the shoreline. I was quickly surrounded by smiling, curious faces of all ages, the youngest children running up to stand staring up at me. Three men were in the midst of repairing the roof of the closest Bure, a large structure for men only, when one jumped and approached me. He looked curious and had a wide grin with his left front tooth the only break in the fantastic whiteness of his teeth. His eyes seemed like they had never experienced anything but happiness. After I showed him my letter, he picked up my pack and said in broken English
“My name is Naqau, come to my home.” I followed with my surfboard through the parting crowd who followed us to a small, grass roofed home a short walk away.
On my way to Australia, at the age of 23, I had stopped in Fiji to search for surf in a place that I had never heard of before seeing it offered as a free stopover on my Air New Zealand flight from L.A. After landing on Viti Levu, I had ridden buses, boats or hitched on cane trains to find small villages where I was invited into the houses of strangers who took me in as a friend. I was told not to walk around the village during the meal times as I would be asked to stop in for a meal and to refuse was very disrespectful. Together we slept, ate and shared our life stories on floor mats thatched in a centuries-old tradition although I had asked only to sleep on the sand of the nearest beach.
I glanced over in the dark at Naqau after his statement and saw for the first time an expression of sadness on his face. ” My friend, you are not poor. Poor means not having things that you need. You are the wealthiest man that I know. You are surrounded by beauty in every minute. You can walk a short distance to the hill into your coconut grove and get delicious food, materials for your home and the tastiest juice on the planet. You are always happy and have the most beautiful wife. You love God and know how to love others. People in my country would pay millions of dollars to have what you do and it still would not be the same.” He stated up at the stars a minute more and then slowly turned his head to look me in the eye. His gapped smile seemed even bigger somehow and I noticed the small tears dropping from his eyes. And I felt mine sliding down my cheek. And all because I had just asked if I could sleep on the sand.