The Rod and the Ring: Fiji day 3

July 23

Another day in paradise, here in Fiji. We spent the first part of it simply relaxing. We did not leave our hotel until our bus arrived at 3:30 PM to take us on the Robinson Crusoe Island night cruise we'd booked. That's when our Fiji adventure began. We will never forget this day; it was so full of the kind of experiences one comes to Fiji for.

This bus was a luxury liner, compared to the bus we expected. We were the only people to board it at our hotel, so it seemed like quite an extravagance. Then it drove to the resort area and we understood why this bus came for us. The resort island of Denarau has all the pricey hotels and tourist trappings we have avoided. The word extravagance applies to this resort, hence the bus that came for us. The bus collected several tourists from one and more from another of the palaces at this resort. Razelle and I exchanged glances. She is so very grateful that we found the hotel we are booked into rather than being in one of these. She appreciates all the more that I found us the place I did. Our hotel has a homey luxurious ambiance. These glitzy steel and glass fortresses appeal to tourists of a different mentality (the resort mentality? – seekers of golf courses and sippers of mixed drinks?). I can't explain it, but Razelle and I know these resorts are not our taste in travel accommodations.

We picked up some of the Robinson Crusoe Island staff along the way. Our guides were Bola, a man who Razelle opined to about the profession of tour guiding, and Latoo, a woman with a talent for keeping the passengers enthused about our evening to come. Latoo made sure we knew the meaning and the proper delivery of the word "Bula". We found many occasions to use it (to shout it enthusiastically on cue).

I noticed as we passed through Nadi that the mountain peaks to the west that form the profile of the "Sleeping Giant" were obscured in clouds; rain clouds perhaps? We reached the jetty and waited for the other bus to arrive. Our bus load of Australian college kids and one other couple our age spent this down time drinking beer and vodka coolers the staff sold out of an ice chest. We had our own bottled water. When the other bus arrived we all climbed into our launch (a simple aluminum flatboat with an awning and plastic roll-down windows; the captain stands outside at the stern of the launch, steering it by turning its single outboard motor from side to side and regulating it's throttle).

We got underway and headed down a river lined with mangroves and into an estuary. I watched the sky and saw large fruit bats flying overhead. The sun had set by now and the gathering darkness of dusk was augmented by a heavy cloud cover. The waters of the estuary were choppy. Then the estuary opened up to become open ocean and a single island lay ahead of us. This was Robinson Crusoe Island, our destination. I pointed it out to Razelle. Within minutes it vanished from view. I told Razelle a curtain of rain separated us from it and completely obscured our visibility. Then we were inside this squall. Our crew unrolled all the plastic walls of the launch to protect us from the torrent of rain. One of the men jumped onto the prow and began shouting "starboard, port, straight on" in Fijian (that is my loose translation of his urgent utterances) because the captain was enclosed in the plastic-walled launch with us. The perilousness of our situation was palpable. We eventually reached the beach of Robinson Crusoe Island, removed our shoes and waded onto the wet sand as huge raindrops pelted us wet before we could reach the sheltering structures there. I shouted over the beating rain to one of the crew, "Great special effects, man." He smiled.

Now images of Gilligan's Island came to mind. We were welcomed into the thatched wooden structure by our handsome, tattooed, grass-skirted dark-skinned bare-chested (male) Fijian host, who personally escorted Razelle onto the island. We settled onto picnic table benches and shook off the drama we'd just experienced and began to enjoy the evening. After an introductory talk of what we would experience this evening, the Kava ceremony began. We were taught the protocol and practiced it several times until we had it memorized. Then the ceremony began in solemnity. After the designated chieftain and spokesman had their small bowl of Kava, whoever else wanted to partake was welcome to sit before the Tanoa (large ceremonial bowl) and receive a bowl of Kava, too, provided that they followed the protocol. I, naturally, had one. Razelle didn't have her camera ready so I went through the ceremony again and had a second dose. Kava is mildly narcotic; it makes the palate and lips go numb. I felt those effects and tasted the clay-like flavor of this concoction, which really felt like drinking dilute mud, just as they said it would. I don't think I became intoxicated, though.

By now the rain had stopped. The wind was still strong and there were no stars above, but getting wet was no longer likely, so the next part of the evening commenced. A pit of hot rocks was uncovered to reveal aluminum-foil-wrapped food and loads of potatoes. These were gathered in stainless steel bowls and the men took turns walking on the hot rocks in the pit. Water was poured onto the rocks and steam rose up, proving to us that they were indeed hot.

Then we lined up at serving tables and loaded our china plates with wonderful tasting cooked and steamed vegetables. We had different kinds of meat to choose from, but, of course, Razelle and I had the fish. Again, Razelle couldn't rave enough about the fish. She even went back for a second helping. A spinach and vegetable dish they served was worth going back for second and third helpings. There were baked cassava roots, seasoned with basil. I told the serving chef that I had yet to taste taro and he told me that what I had thought was spinach was in fact taro leaves. He was very pleased that Razelle and I both had asked about the ingredients of his dish.

Then the entertainment began. The men and the women took turns performing South Pacific dances. The men wore grass leggings and short Fijian skirts and tattoos on their faces and chests. Their oiled dark skin rippled in the red spot lights and glowed from the torches they brandished. It was great to see their gestures and stomping and threatening grimaces as they performed. They were authentic Fijians dancing authentic traditional Fijian dances, kicking up sand under swaying coconut palms and it moved the crowd to witness this display of male prowess.

The women came out after the men had extinguished their torches and did a Polynesian dance in coconut-shell bras and grass skirts, which were thrust this way and that by their gyrating hips that swayed suggestively while they made come-hither gestures with their arms and hands in the graceful manner so familiar. They pointed their feet this way and that and turned to smile over their shoulders invitingly.

The number ended and the men came back and did another dance, choreographed differently but incorporating many of the same moves. A mountain of a man tattooed with striking patterns brandished a large weapon and wended it menacingly while he stomped in his grass leggings and shook his head. We reacted appropriately with an audible inrush of breath.

On throughout the evening these sets of dancers took turns entertaining us. The men twirled fire torches and spears; in one number they incorporated large blades, which they drew across their tongues when the dance ended. The women changed from grass skirts to sarong skirts and back, and they wore different hair ornament and necklaces, as they arranged themselves differently for each number, but their moves remained the same. With one exception: Latoo; she danced with fire. She twirled lit firepots on the ends of chains and twirled fire spears with the men. Our Latoo from the bus was far more talented than we could have known when we first met her.

The time had come to cruise back to our jetty and waiting buses. The cruise started out on choppy waters with a full capacity of passengers (perhaps too many passengers). In a short while the skies opened up and again the rain came down so hard that visibility dropped to zilch. This time it was pitch black out there and Razelle was so frightened she asked me to hold her tightly. I tried to lift her mood by singing, "the weather started getting rough, the tiny ship was tossed …," from Gilligan's Isle. She wasn't amused at first, then she laughed and we sang it together in our tiny tossed ship. We missed some of the words. It didn't lessen the peril we seemed to be in, that of being swamped from overload or grounded on a snag of driftwood or foundered among the mangrove is the choppy estuary of this tropical island during this tropical squall. But, after a long cruise, the rain ended, the lights on the jetty came into view and we reached safety. Razelle was so elated to be safe again she had to thank the captain of our vessel for a better ride than any in Disneyland. He laughed at her compliment.

We boarded our bus and drove through a rainy night back through all the resorts and through Nadi town. I talked with Latoo most of they way back about aspects of the dances we'd seen and about life in Fiji. She was happy to answer all my questions. It completed my education of this place that much more.

In the lobby of our hotel we met the winner of the Nadi Festival beauty contest. It wasn't possible for us to participate in the festival that was going on while we were here. How serendipitous, then, that the winner of the pageant came to celebrate her victory at our hotel. This is what makes our hotel, as opposed to those resorts, a special Fijian experience. This is where Fijians come to celebrate and hold conferences. I was able to photograph this young example of Fijian beauty, as judged by her own fellow Fijians. Razelle's father spoke of the beautiful women of Fiji. Razelle related this to Loata, who loved to repeat this whenever we dined at her table. Here was such a woman, certified so by her peers.