I took my first “holiday” as they call it here, to the Yasawa Islands. You take a 4.5 hr ferry ride from Port Denerau passing several minuscule islands that have been capitalized on by building resorts to cater to both backpackers and those toasting to champagne wishes and caviar dreams.
I stayed with my friend Zoe in her Fijian village called Nacua (pronounced Nathua). These islands are exactly what you picture when you think of Fiji. Oceans 3 shades of turquoise, with 30 feet visibility, watching schools of fish swim around you while the palms sway in the constant salty breeze. True Paradise. Until you decide to actual live like a Fijian. Zoe lives in a traditional bure. A small thatched roof hut, with no running water, no electricity but 2 hours in the evening, more ants than you’ve ever seen in your life and a plethora of the ever entertaining rats.
I got to one of the most important things on my agenda as soon as I arrived-snorkeling, at a near-by resort. There was a reef that went out to sea about 2 kilometers and I swam all along that, joining the tiny electric blue fish, parrot fish, schools of small grouper, a lion fish with its poisonous striped fins fanned out, 2 giant clams, and a sapphire blue star fish 12 inches across. This ocean water is so salty that it seems as though your body defies gravity. When you try to dive down, the water, against your will, ascends you back up to the surface and makes you bob like a cork in a sea of fizzy prosecco.
When Zoe and I reached her village it was raining, this is wonderful because there has been a drought that has lasted for months. However, riding on a boat getting stung in the face by little pellets of painful raindrops, not so fun. Thankfully, a lovely local named Joe, helped me carry my bags and fetch us some of the most disgusting water I have ever seen. The water comes from a bore hole, but because the water table is so low, the water is salty and also filled with shit…literally. Poop etc, gets flushed and sits in septic tanks that leak and whala....poopy water. Another reason to be grateful for the rain, as rainwater en-catchments were placed under broken gutters and by the next day they were filled to the top. Fresh rainwater for drinking, this is a reason to celebrate. This water, by the way, needs to be carried in buckets by hand from the en-catchment back to Zoe’s hut about 50 yards away.
Upon arriving in a village one must do what is called a savusavu. It is a traditional offering of yanqona, also known as grog or kava. It is basically a gift of thanks for letting me stay in the village. One has to present this to the chief or someone of status. Thankfully, Joe also helped us with this as there are all kinds of things you should not do, so he helped me not make an ass of myself and offend a group of Fijians. We entered the community hall, it was lit by a single lantern that shown on 12 Fijian elders sitting around drinking kava. I was soaking wet and slightly intimidated by the suffocating amount of masculine energy. Joe did what he had to do, they spoke for a few minutes in Fijian, acknowledging, clapping, blessing etc. and asked me to get up and shake everyone’s hand…awkward..but here I go.
The island is so dry and the soil is so sandy that almost nothing grows, so if you want to eat produce you have to bring it from the mainland, but because there is no refrigeration and the constant competition of rats and ants, nothing lasts long. So Zoe and I got to work on making tomato chutney for dinner. We were tired and wet and finally went to bed, swearing, laughing and kind of scared at the sound of rats having a disco in her kitchen and also because we both had such horrible heartburn we couldn’t sleep. We found a single piece of gum to share & that solved that issue. I think two of the most soothing things to sleep to are the sound of rain and the sound of waves, and much to my delight, that night, I had both.
Wednesday night Zoe & I were invited to a gunu sede (pronounced newnew senday). It is a community grog session where you buy other people bilos (coconut shells you drink the kava from) of grog to raise money, this one was to raise money for a young man to go to high school. It was fun, culturally rich and slightly awkward because they had us sit in front so everyone could watch every move we make & you have to be careful who you buy for or else they may think you also have other intentions in mind like marriage…….better to stick to just buying for women……
I was invited to lunch the next day at a local’s house. On the menu-Land Crabs steamed in a curry broth, Boiled Cassava, and lolo (coconut milk) with lemon. These land crabs are somewhat small & hard to manage, so I had a young village woman sit next to me & act as my personal crab cracker. The meat is tender and sweet and tastes amazing soaked in the rich lolo, salted and dressed with lemon juice. The cassava sops up the broth & afterward you are ready for a nap. I failed to take a picture of this eating event, but honestly I don’t think a photo would have been able to capture the culinary anthropological intensity of the moment. There were 4 men, sitting separate from us women, eating their meals. While the hosts sat with us (myself, my volunteer friend Megan and 2 people she works with), the hosts did not eat. They simply enjoyed watching us devour their offerings and listening to our praise and thanks.
Later that day myself, Zoe and Megan hiked through rugged volcanic rocks and jungle to arrive at our very own private beach in front of Malakati village. A long horseshoe shaped stretch of soft white sandy beach all to ourselves. We took a quick dip in the crystal waters accompanied by a dusk sky and then headed back.
I spent 2 nights at a backpacker lodge/resort called Oarsman’s Bay. It’s a 45 minute rugged hike through trail and beach, and Zoe did all of this with my suitcase balanced on her head like an African tribal woman carry a monstrous bag of rice. Zoe is a warrior. Her living situation is basically like rough’n it camping…try that for 2 years. We arrived at the resort just in time for a game of volley ball with the men from her village that work at the resort, followed by a quick sea dip and then got ready for an amazing show of dancing, a traditional lovo dinner and hermit crab racing.
We met a group of very interesting tourists from a grad school in Melbourne, Australia. They were studying the effects of tourism in developing countries. One of the men, Juan from Chile, danced salsa; so I lucked out, grabbed my ipod, got a few dances in and to show off a little. It was great sweaty fun. Another gentleman, that I got to spend far too little time with, was named Marko. The kind you roll the R, Marrrrko, (pause for intensity)from Montenegro ( I didn’t know where it was either…..Middle East Mediterranean, along the Adriatic Sea). Yes, he’s tall, dark and devilishly good looking with the accent to match. The kind of guy trashy novels are written about, women brag about meeting and hope to meet again. One thing I love about traveling like this is the exotic people you meet and hearing their stories and how it eventually leads to them having the very conversation you are sharing. Now that I have a dozen new friends in Melbourne it doesn’t take a genius to figure out where my next holiday will be.
All good things must come to an end and alas so did my holiday. I went kayaking for 90 minutes with Zoe outside of the sparkling waters of the resort and literally watched my skin turn 3 shades darker even with sunscreen on.
Zoe was a great host, the hotel was more than generous, the tourist group was exciting and I hiked, ate, swam, snorkeled, played volleyball, danced, kayaked, laid in hammocks star gazing and rejuvenated my spirit.
Next holiday….hmmmmm…..I’m feeling Melbourne. Dancing, yoga, shopping, eating…my favorite things to do all over the world.
