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IN TROPICAL TRANSIT
by Susan Richardson
"Drink
lots, then sleep - that's all there is to do round here,"
said Bob-from-Scotland when I asked him how I could
best spend my two-day stopover in Fiji. Fortunately,
since he tried to convince me for the next half-hour
that he was Rod Stewart's nephew, I quickly sussed that
his judgement was a bit suspect.
We were staying on the west coast of the main island
of Viti Levu.
Accommodation
was in traditional Fijian bures - timber huts with hardwood
floors and thatched rooves. For the best part of two
weeks, Bob had been stumbling between his hut and the
large central bure containing the bar. He'd completely
ignored the chain of tiny islands studding the ocean
on one side of the resort, and the mountainous interior
rising up on the other.
My aim was to see both in just two days. On the first,
I opted for a trip to Daydream Island. This was in spite
of the dubious blurb in the tour brochure urging me
to come on a "Fun Cruise" to "The Most
Fijian Island Of Them All!" It was the "Early
Bird Special" which persuaded me to go - the promise
of a free tropical breakfast for anyone willing to set
sail before seven. Surprisingly few others had taken
advantage of this offer: only six travellers, plus five
Fijian tour organisers made the daybreak crossing to
Daydream.
Moses, the boss, played guitar while the others simultaneously
sang and served us with mango, papaya and crusty-bread-with-jam.
Traditional Fijian folk songs were interspersed with
orders to "eat more - you must eat!" throughout
the hour-long crossing.
"Daydream Island is uninhabited," we were
informed by Sigaleke, as we sank shin-deep in white
sand on arrival. "It is six acres big and it takes
twenty minutes to walk round. Or two hours if you are
on honeymoon!"
None of my fellow travellers belonged to that category,
so instead of walking round the island, we congregated
in the centre for a Fijian welcoming ceremony. This
involved some communal drinking of kava from a half-coconut
shell. The drink is prepared from an aromatic plant
root and since it is a relaxant, all imbibers' tongues
are temporarily numbed. This proved to be a very popular
concept with Hal from Michigan. "Gee, I'll have
to ship a few barrels home for my
wife," he said. "If it stops her talking,
it'll be worth every cent!" Hilda, the wife in
question, fumed silently at his side. How long, I wondered,
did it take to walk round the island if you wanted an
instant divorce?
After the kava and formal welcome, Moses outlined the
day's schedule. We were free to swim/ snorkel/ play
volleyball/ fish and even scuba dive if we were qualified.
Alternatively, we could zonk-out under a palm tree and
consume as much of the complimentary buffet lunch as
we were able. l tried most of the above, with varying
degrees of success, while Moses and the other tour organisers
excelled at every activity. Each was equally adept at
fishing, cooking, playing volleyball, swimming, boat-handling
- and flirting with solo female travellers. Sigaleke
went for the direct approach. ("You married?"
"No." "You looking?") while Ami
hoped to inspire love-through-sympathy ("My big
father is very sick in the hospital in Suva. I was very
sad but happy now I meet you.") Moses, meanwhile,
asked each woman in turn to be his "little chocolate",
someone whom he could shelter and prevent from melting
in the sun.
I opted for the shade of some tropical foliage instead
and stayed at the zonked-out-under-a-palm-tree stage
for most of the afternoon. Moses and co. kept us supplied
with food and drink throughout our extended siesta and
even cooked a special Fijian fish dish comprising the
morning's catch.
On the Fun Cruise back to Viti Levu, there was more
singing and guitar playing. Sigaleke instructed his
younger brother to steer the boat while he took over
from Moses on guitar. "We will sing a song for
each of you from your own country," he announced.
Hilda and Hal got "John Brown's Body", French
Francine was treated to "Alouette", while
Niki from Germany got the rather unseasonal "O
Tannenbaum." Only when they turned to me did those
five very capable tour organisers flounder. "Now,
we will do Wales," said Sigaleke, before launching
into a rousing rendition of "My Bonnie Lies Over
the Ocean". Well, it was an almost-perfect day.
As was the next. I was one of only three passengers
in a four-wheel-drive which trundled 150 miles into
the interior. After passing acres of low-level sugar
cane, we drove up into the parched humps of the Nausori
Highlands, stopping for a brief kava ceremony at a tiny
settlement en route. Our numb tongues caused the children
of the village much mirth as we slurred our way through
some basic Fijian greetings. They proceeded to mob us
for sweets and squabbled over my solitary pack of mints.
Then, as we drove away, they followed for a mile or
so, three-astride five bony ponies.
The tour was organised by two Fijian Indians and the
picnic with which we were provided reflected this cultural
blend. There were the samosas and curried vegetables
of Indian cuisine, complemented by the more plain and
starchy native Fijian food. Kumala (sweet potato), rourou
(boiled leaves which look like spinach) and cassava
(a starchy white root which is used to make tapioca)
featured among the dishes we were once again urged to
"eat - you haven't eaten much - eat!"
My final Fijian journey was later that night, from the
bure where I'd been staying to Nadi Airport. It was
the least picturesque of the drives I'd taken - for
one thing, we passed the city's first Mcdonald's - but
it was far from the least eventful. My taxi driver,
Semi, announced, half-way to the airport, that he had
a flat tyre. "You like Fiji, then?" he asked
as a truck swerved past us at high-speed. "Very
much," I said. "Next time, you come here for
your honeymoon," he instructed, panting with the
effort of jacking up the car. "Next time, you leave
with a big tummy!"
What more proof was needed that there's far more to
do in Fiji than drink lots, then sleep?
Susan
Richardson
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