THE drive from Suva to Nadi takes about three hours over potholed surfaces and can be hazardous at night due to livestock wandering the road. Fiji Sun publisher Australian Russell Hunter tells of being deported from the country.
I’d always considered the drive a chore but it’s necessary to get to the international airport.
The drive that Monday (Feb 25) night was different. You do see things differently when crammed into the back seat of a twin cab between two large Fijian soldiers.
My abduction – for that’s what it was – began at about 8.30pm with the arrival of two men who said they were from the Fiji immigration department. One, an ethnic Fijian, was jovial, even friendly, while the other, an Indo-Fijian, was silent.
He said he just needed to see my passport, just to sort out an administrative matter. I showed it to him and he then said: “I also have some news.”
He showed me a green form allegedly signed by the permanent secretary for immigration Malakai Tadulala, giving me seven days to leave the country. This man wanted me to come to his office where we would “complete the formalities”.
I asked which formalities these might be but he replied that he would explain at the office. He wanted me to sign a document but I declined to do so.
I asked if I was under arrest and he said I was not. I pointed out that the form gave me seven days to leave. He said I was to go with him right away.
I then called the company lawyer and asked for advice. As soon as I called, four men, who were almost certainly soldiers out of uniform came through the gate and started telling me to “get moving now”.
The twin cab at the gate was driven by another large military-looking man who was particularly agitated. He told me to “Get in the car right now” and “Don’t waste our time”.
While still on the phone to the lawyer, another soldier took me by the arm and began to move me, but not aggressively, towards the twin cab. I told the lawyer I was being arrested and though they said they were taking me to their office, I had no idea where I was being taken.
He told me to ask for their names, which I did. They refused to identify themselves.
My partner, Martha, and our 13-year-old daughter were watching all this and the looks of horror on their faces when I got into the twin cab, quickly followed by the soldiers, will stay with me as long as I live.
Martha asked if she could give them her mobile phone number so they could let her know my whereabouts and condition. They took down the number. It was never used. As soon as it was obvious we were on the main road to Nadi, the soldier on my right demanded my mobile phone. I asked why he needed it but he simply held out his hand in an obvious gesture.
As we drove into the night in silence, I began to study my abductors. The driver, who in my mind I christened Big Oaf, was very large. He was overweight even for such a massive frame.
He narrowly missed running over a dog, which seemed to disappoint him.
The other one in front was the so-called Fijian immigration officer who, for me, became the Car Salesman. The other two on either side of me in the rear were Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. Both were soon asleep, Tweedle Dum snoring gently against my right shoulder.
Car Salesman and Big Oaf evidently knew each other as they joked and laughed uproariously in Fijian. However, even their raucous uproar couldn’t block out the sound of my mobile ringing every few minutes. I asked to be allowed to answer it but was ignored.
I suppose that’s when I realised I was alone and cut off from my family and the world. I knew my partner and daughter would be terrified over the total absence of information about what was happening to me but could do nothing to reassure them.
My moment of real fear came when the twin cab parked for about a half hour outside a locked gate in Cawa Street in the Namaka industrial suburb of Nadi. Another vehicle arrived and two more extremely large soldiers, much bigger and fitter than Big Oaf, emerged. However, they seemed uninterested in me. From my rudimentary knowledge of the Fijian language, I gathered they didn’t have a key for the padlocked gate. Then the twin cab took us all to the airport, where it parked for 15 minutes or so before returning to Cawa Street, where I was told to get out of the vehicle.
Car Salesman said we would all sleep there for the night. I asked again if I could contact my family but was ignored.
I was led into the house and shown to a room upstairs. It was basic but semi-clean and I was told I should sleep there for the night.
Later, Tweedle Dum, now fully awake, came to the room and asked whether my mobile was my personal property or the company’s. Foolishly, perhaps, I replied that it was company property, though I would need to take it with me wherever I was going (I still had no idea).
Tweedle Dum said he could return it to the company for me (my first real confirmation that I was going away somewhere) but I said I would require it.
The phone was returned to my home in Fiji during the week.
After a restless night I was put into a similar vehicle with four different but even larger soldiers and taken to the international airport where, again, we waited for a guard to open the security gates.
I finally knew I was leaving Fiji. The silent squaddies with a friendly airport security guard took me through the customs and immigration barrier at arrivals and, after another long wait, I was escorted to flight FJ911, bound for Sydney, by the largest of the soldiers. I was wearing the shorts and shirt I had on when I was abducted.
The cabin crew were wonderful. They escorted me to my seat and several came to say how sorry they were for what had happened and inquired about my family. They said they were deeply shocked and that this was not how Fiji really was.
I agree with them.
By chance, Ted Mann, the deputy head of mission at the US embassy, was on the flight. He had been asked by ambassador Larry Dinger to find out if I was on the aircraft. Mann found me and lent me his mobile so that I could talk to the ambassador and ask him to let Martha know where I was and that I was well.
I know he did so and will always be grateful.
Mann, who was in business class, had little difficulty in persuading the crew to allow me to sit with him for the flight. He could see that I was all but penniless and gave me all he had in his wallet. I’ll make sure it gets back to him.
Towards the end of the flight I was given back my passport and the green form that now had the words “seven days” blacked out. I could laugh for the first time in many hours.
The captain of the flight gave me a clean shirt and trousers, which I’m wearing as I write this.
I’m eternally grateful to all those who so generously helped me, including the News Limited photographer who gave me A$50 after the airport press conference. If he’d care to identify himself, I’ll get it back to him.
And I must remember to claim my frequent flyer points.

* Russell Hunter is a former chief sub-editor of The Australian.