Fiji

Rough Roads and Rouger Seas in Fiji

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“Mr Chris! Mr. Chris!”

I’m shaken awake from my fitful slumber by one of the resort’s Hawaiian shirt clad security guards.

I’ve become used to these pre dawn starts. Before I’m fully conscious I’ve shrugged on my pack and swept my Kindle and wallet into my satchel. Bleary eyed starts are becoming second nature to me, but Grant looks like death warmed up as we stumble out into the cool morning air.

Photo by goldfoot

We leave Mango Bay before the sun has awoken from its own slumber. The grey blue sky is dotted with stars and the day has yet to take on its customary mantle of oppressive humidity.

Amidst the glitz and glamour of resort life it’s perhaps easy to forget that Fiji is a developing country. On our dawn ride from Mango Bay to Port Denarau for our transfer to another resort, we are lucky enough to see more of the real Fiji.

As we pass through sign-posted villages we move slowly passed crowds of locals roaming the streets sporting antiquated portable radios while others sit by open fires beneath shelters that are little more than corrugated iron supported on roughly cut palm stilts.

Another sleepy Fijian village. Photo by mysticgirl

Hand written signs attempt to lure tourists into ramshackle sheds purporting to sell village handicrafts, and some of the locals boisterously shout greeting to our Fijian driver as we pass by. It’s hard to believe it’s not yet 7am.

Our driver dozes at the wheel on several occasions. My brother and his girlfriend nag me to strike up a conversation with him, but I choose a subtler tactic and open up a bag of the local Thumbs Up brand potato chips and casually offer them to him. A premature death at the hands of our good-natured driver has been averted and we wind our way on toward Port Denerau.

If my party had expected smoother sailing after we escaped the van of death they’re in for a rude surprise. Whilst the bright yellow Yasawa Flyer is far more spacious and modern that the van that has brought us this far, the rough seas ensure a rough three hour ride out to Mantaray Island.

We wait at dock an inordinate amount of time, where the stink of gasoline sets our empty stomachs on edge. When we do finally pull out it is only for a short time. Mechanical faults soon have us back inhaling the heady aroma of petrol fumes.

At last we’re underway, but choppy waters offer no respite for the less strong stomached of us. Already Grant and Bronte are glancing at their phones to get some idea of how long this torture will laugh.

A chatty Aussie local sits by me as I kill time playing Angry Birds. He offers me advice and soon plucks up the courage to ask what the device I’m playing on is.

“It’s just an iPhone,” I assure him. He looks at me with wide eyed wonder.

“That’s a phone too??”

Soon he stumbles off in search of some air conditioning. We seem to have picked the steamiest corner of the boat and soon Grant stumbles out onto the windswept sun deck in search of fresh air. Sun deck is perhaps a generous term given the rain that greets those who step outside.

He’s soon followed by my brother’s girlfriend who, of course, is followed by my doting brother, Dominik. My remaining brother, Leigh and I shrug and return to our iPods. We’ll survive a Waterworld like apocalypse.

I eventually pluck up the courage to stagger over to a tiny concession stand to order a premade sandwich and a bottle of Coke. The captain’s thick Indian accent informs us that we should stay seated for our safety. Our boat becomes airborne on a regular basis as we move away from the relatively calm waters surrounding the mainland and head out towards the famous Yasawa Islands.

The Yasawa Flier is the best way to get around Fiji's Yasawa Islands. Photo by timparkinson

Eventually the boat throttles back and we’re asked to make our way to the rear deck to identify our baggage. A trio of speedboats are buzzing out to greet us. On the shoreline we can make our bures jutting out from a thickly forested shoreline. A small group of staff are playing the guitar and singing a traditional Fijian welcoming song as we step from the Flier and down onto the less glamorous long boat that is to be the final leg of the journey.

The relief on Grant and Bronte’s faces is near comical. Grant still clutches a paper bag with feverish desperation.

Before too long we’re moored I’m shallow water and we are being helped to the shore. We are greeted with a hearty ‘Bula’ which we return with enthusiasm born from our happiness to finally be on solid ground again.

Staff are on hand to hand us glasses of ice cold juice and thrust paperwork into our hands. I catch glimpses of hammocks amidst the shoreline gardens and the guests already settled on eye the new arrivals curiously as we gather in away from the wind and rain.

Once the formalities are done we are guided through the trees along a cobblestone path lined with shells and coral. Our beachfront bure can’t be more than ten meters from the warm water at high tide. Inside there’s the blessed relief of private bathroom facilities and beds.

We’ve arrived at what appears to be paradise, but paradise can wait. We’ve been up since 5am and we have eyes only for bed.

Accommodation, Fiji

Missed Opportunities at Mango Bay

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After the two and a half our drive from Nadi’s international airport, Mango Bay resort feels like an oasis when it finally comes into view. The winding and often bumpy journey finally ends down a particularly bumpy stretch on unsealed road where the manicured lawns and palm groves of the resort lead up to where the ocean timidly laps at the shell strewn shore.

Like everywhere in Fiji it is the friendliness of the Fijian people that immediately leaps out at us. On our drive down to the resort our driver twice stopped for us – once in Nadi to visit an ATM and once farther along at a roadside store for us to buy beer and snacks for the trip.

The ladies at reception made short work of checking us in and making us feel welcome, even going so far as to have security move an additional bed into the beachfront bure we’d reserved so that a shyer member of our party wouldn’t have to endure dorm accommodation.

He needn’t have worried. The spacious and surprisingly well kept dorms were near abandoned for much of our stay. On two nights it was just the two members of my party in an eight bed dormitory.

Modestly designed and furnished, the dorms boast a refreshing lack of bunks. Single beds are portioned off in four bed cubicles surrounded by bamboo privacy screens and each bed has its own mosquito net and bedside table. Some beds also have overhead lamps, although I wasn’t one of the lucky few. The traditional bure design coupled with overhead fans means that the dorms enjoy a cooler temperature than the more compact (and expensive) beachside rooms.

The beachfront bure boasts a spacious interior and a rather relaxing outdoor shower

 

What of our beachside base of operations? Thatched roofs line the waterfront and beneath them can be found slightly more comfortable accommodations. A separate toilet is a step up from the generally dirty and frog infested dorm bathrooms, and the tastefully designed outdoor showers are a new and pleasant way to wash off the dirt and sweat after a day’s excitement. Don’t fret. There are high walls for the modest, so no need to worry about peeping toms.

After dropping off our belongings we began to explore the resort proper. Mango Bay’s website prominently displays its schoolies and New Year’s attractions, and it was clear to us that we were no longer in peak season. In a resort built to host upwards of two hundred, I never saw more than thirty or forty people.

There are other signs too that the place sees most of its activity during November and December. The much vaunted night club played host to a battered table tennis table for the duration of our stay and the poolside bar served up only flotation devices and beach mats despite the pleas of a dozen or so of us on one particularly hot afternoon.

The hammocks that dot the shoreline are either too tattered or too tightly strung to be used, and only about half of the deckchairs sport cushions for comfort.

Over Vonu beers on our first night at the resort I discussed New Year’s with one of a large group of drunk Aussies.

“It was insane,” he boasts “People dancing on the pool table and having sex on the beach. It was going off. Girls would just walk up and ask if you wanted to fuck”.

Obligatory exaggeration aside it seemed we’d either timed our trip very poorly or very well depending on your viewpoint.

That’s not to say that the resort was without its charms. The waterfront lagoon pool is larger than average and pleasantly warm throughout the day. While the poolside bar might only exist in the busy season, the bar staff were happy to bring our drinks to the pool if we asked.

The sun sets over the pool after another fun day at Mango Bay

The central bure, a high roofed structure housing the night club, bar, and restaurant was a real highlight for me. I’m a big fan of communal space and many a chat was had with a fellow guest over beers at the bar or nightly Killer Pool competitions.

Of the staff at the resort I found the bar staff to be the most friendly, but that’s just smart business isn’t it? The bar has a selection of local beers as well as cocktails, wine, and soda – and there’s even Corona for the yuppie crowd. If you’re feeling budget conscious, you can even ask one of the bar staff to put your duty free liquor behind the bar and they’ll let you but it with their mixers. Not a bad deal.

I basically blew my Fiji budget at this damned bar. Vonu Towers are evil!

The Moody Marlin restaurant has a modest menu which you’ll rely on for the duration of your stat. There are no nearby shops or cafes to offer an alternative. My personal favorites were the black pepper tuna and the chicken burger, while my brothers swore by the rump steak. All portions are generous and there are daily dinner specials to spice up the limited menu. While most resorts require you to buy a daily meal plan as part of your costs – Mango Bay provides a free continental breakfast (cereal, toast, juice, coffee, and fruit) and the pricing of meals means that it generally works out cheaper than a meal plan.

My one complaint on the food front would be with regards to the consistency of quality. On our first two days we raved about how delicious our food was, but a chicken burger that was perfect on Tuesday came burned on both Wednesday and Thursday. After declaring Wednesday’s fries the best we’d had in a long time – Thursday’s were limp and unseasoned. It was as if, having won us over early on, the kitchen staff just stopped caring what we thought.

Another area of poor consistency was in the running of daily events. While the board was updated nightly with a slew of activities for the day to come – fully half of them never happened. Some of them, like coconut bowling or day trips to Suva relied on participation and lived and died on the malaise of the guests, but others such as cooking classes and touch football were never even announced.

Still others seemed to exist at the whims of the owner and his friends, who used the resort as their playground while we were around. My group was particularly unimpressed when the sunset booze cruise we’d been looking forward to was hijacked by the owner’s friends and left without even offering other guests a place.

My lingering memory of Mango Bay will be one of missed potential.

We had a good time. Daily beach volleyball with the friendly local staff was a highlight, as were two nights of outdoor cinema. We consumed vast quantities of Vonu lager from three liter towers and spent plenty of time in the pool with beer in hand.

Beach volleyball was the highlight of our stay and a great way to meet fellow guests

But I can’t shake the feeling that our five nights at Mango Bay could have been better. It’s understandable that resorts have their off seasons and there’s nought that the staff could do to solve the problem of the place being a bit of a ghost town – but simple things such as running activities as posted and delivering on promises would go a long way. Guests shouldn’t be sitting around in the bar bored because none if the staff felt like running an activity.

Don’t completely discount Mango Bay. The massage is second to none, the facilities are top notch, and the Fijian staff are typically friendly. The events that did run were a lot of fun and admittedly we didn’t attempt to arrange a snorkeling trip or scuba dive. Of course, these seemed to again rely upon the whims of the ownership.

I don’t regret my time at Mango Bay at all, but I’m not sure I’d go back outside of it’s peak season again. I just couldn’t get past the thought that I was missing out on a lot of the experience.

Accommodation, Fiji

New Year’s on Robinson Crusoe

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New Year’s Eve and I have had a conflicted relationship for a long time now. Basically since I was old enough to attach any significance to the end of one year and the beginning of another. Regardless of the plans I made or the people I planned to spend the night with, it seemed like my New Year’s celebrations were far more miss than hit. That’s not to say they’ve all been terrible. I have fond memories of my two New Year’s spent in South Korea with good friends, and my final year at University fittingly ended with the original theater crew out and about after a pretty fun house party. I even got (stole) a New Year’s kiss after my friend was locked out for the countdown and the girl he was sweet on opted to plant one on me instead.

But I’ve never had a great New Year’s, and I was beginning to think that they didn’t exist.

Fiji Time

For the final leg of our journey together, Fallon and I were to spend three nights on Robinson Crusoe Island. Unlike most of Fiji’s many resorts and backpackers, Robinson Crusoe doesn’t like in the Yasawa or Mamanuca island chains, nor is it on the crowded Coral Coast. Instead, Robinson Crusoe lies just off the mainland and is reachable only after a half hour bus ride from Nadi, a half hour boat ride down a mangrove lined river, and a short jaunt across the ocean.

Local boys play in the river as we make our way to Robinson Crusoe Island.

Fallon and I were hardly in the best of spirits as we arrived on the island. We’d been up at 3.45am for our flight out of New Zealand and despite arriving at 10am, had to spend a good chunk of our day killing time in Port Denarau until our transfer arrived to pick us up at 3.30. It didn’t arrive until 5pm. There’s only so much surfing the internet and souvenir browsing two people can do, and when the rain began to pour down we weren’t in the best of spirits. We tried our best to smile though – after all, this was our first experience with the legendary ‘Fiji time’.

Arriving at beautiful Robinson Crusoe Island

 

 

 

But catching sight of Robinson Crusoe Island made the wait seem worthwhile. Here were the white sandy beaches, coconut palms, and hammocks that we’d daydreamed about for so long. A group of Fijian staff and foreign guests stood on the sand as our boat arrived strumming on the guitar and singing a traditional Fijian welcome song, and we were greeted with a hearty ‘Bula’ as we stepped off the boat and into the remarkably warm waters that lapped at the shore.

The owners of Robinson Crusoe Island are a pair of Queenslanders, and they rushed out to take Fallon and I’s luggage and apologize profusely for the delay. Drinks vouchers were thrust into our hands and we were guided through a beautiful rainforest style garden to our private bure – a kind of traditional hut. It was spartan stuff – a power point, overhead fan, bed, and mosquito net – but after near two weeks of shared accommodation we were happy for the privacy.

We didn’t have time to settle down just yet, and went out to the communal dining area to grab some dinner. Picnic tables resting on soft sand, palm thatch overhead, and the setting sun over the ocean – yeah, we were in paradise. And our buffet style meal of fruit, meat, and rice did plenty to put us in a good mood. But our long day had taken its toll, and we were in bed before 9pm.

Doing Precious Little

Fallon and I had made ambitious plans to do as much as we possibly could with our time in Fiji, but plans to scuba dive and kayak were put on the backburner from the moment we stepped out of our bure and were greeted by absolutely amazing weather. It wasn’t yet 8am but the sun was high overhead. Fiji had put on a perfect day for us and we weren’t going to waste any of it underwater. Instead we took a quick breakfast, grabbed books, and spent our entire day reclining in hammocks as the gentle breeze rocked us and the sea soothed us with its purring.

A Fiji sunset with a fine Fiji beer. Photo by Fallon Fehringer.

Oh sure, we moved occasionally. I’d go up to the beachside bar from time to time to fetch us another Vonu or fruity cocktail (all ridiculously cheap); we both ventured into the warm waters at one point; and there were meals to take. But from 8am until 8pm we barely moved from our prime position on the beach, and I don’t think either of us would have had it any other way. In fact, doing bugger all was the theme of our time on Robinson Crusoe Island. Snorkeling and kayaking could be done anywhere in the world, but Fiji has made relaxing on the beach an art form. It seemed a shame not to indulge in a little Fiji time.

Ringing in the New Year

The big day rolled around and we’d finally gotten most of our laziness out of our system. The island was abuzz with activity as guests rushed about preparing for the ‘gender swap’ theme of the evening. Men busily worked on coconut bras on the shady lawns while the womenfolk were taught a traditional warrior dance behind closed doors in one of the staff bures. Staff hurried about stringing up lights and palm fronds and the afternoon saw a boatload of girls (and one guy) arriving from the mainland to celebrate New Year’s with us. Even an anti New Year’s guy like me couldn’t help but get caught up in the energy of the place. Maybe 2010 would see me have my first truly awesome New Year’s.

Dinner came and went with a traditional Fijian lovo (underground oven in the same style as a Maori hungi) filling us with lamb, potato, taro root, and chicken. Then it was time for the festivities to begin.

The women lined up to have tribal tattoos painted onto them and the men went about prettying themselves up. Coconut bras were tied on and grass skirts went around waists, but I was determined to stand out amongst my peers. I hastily donned one of Fallon’s skirts and she began the hard work of making me beautiful. A few other girls came along to chip in with lipstick and perfume, and soon this ruggedly handsome traveler had been transformed into a thing of startling beauty.

As the girls finished up their dinner the men were invited to sit down for a traditional kava ceremony. Kava is a Fijian icon – a slightly narcotic root that is pounded into a powder and then mixed with water. They drink the stuff like Australians drink beer. I was elected as ‘chief’ for the event which meant I got to participate in the more solemn portion of the ritual, but everybody in the circle got to drink plenty of kava. With the option of low tide (small), high tide (medium), or tsunami (large) bowls – everybody got their fill. It was a bit hard to take it all seriously with the men leading the ritual also in drag – but it was a pleasure to feel my lips and tongue go numb as expected.

Kava flowed and the bar began to go into overdrive. Fruity drinks and ice daiquiris and margaritas were in high demand. A three legged race between three teams saw the losers locked into a crudely constructed cage where we were drenched with sea water for our failings. The girls wowed us with a remarkably well learned warrior dance. I may or may not have failed abysmally at attempting to limbo and flashed the world my underpants in the process.

Midnight rolled around with a very drunk crowd of us on the sand dancing and celebrating, and Fallon looked at me with confusion when the count-down to 2011 began a full seven minutes before midnight proper. Too drunk to really care, we foolishly remained on the dance floor as fake midnight occurred and balloons fell from the sky. Moments later, in another Fijian tradition, we were all drenched with sea water. This was all too much for a very drunk and very tired Fallon, so I took her away and we had a private count down together.

I’ve had just two New Year’s kisses in my life and (with apologies to Tahlia) there’s really no comparison. I started 2010 with Fallon on the phone and about to come into my life in Australia, and I ended it with her in my arms and about to leave my life for the foreseeable future. It was a bittersweet moment, but there’s nobody on earth I’d rather have shared the moment with.

With the formalities done it was time for Fallon to retire for the evening, but I was determined to make it to the sunrise bonfire. I came so close.

Drunken swimming, hammock deep and meaningfuls, and far too much alcohol painted the remainder of my night. I saved the dance floor at one point by leading a coup against the DJ and his determination to only play music from the 70s, and had to defend a girl’s honor after one drunken reveler went on an angry campaign against the island’s female population for not wishing to sleep with him.

Dawn came with me and a few other hardy souls gathered around the bonfire, but I rushed off to check on Fallon and passed out on the bed beside her – my goal of seeing the sunrise thwarted by my drunken tiredness and the lure of kisses from my girlfriend. 2010 had been a good year.

Farewelling Paradise

It was hard not to get a little emotional as our boat pulled away from the island the following day. It is traditional in Fijian society to sing a farewell song when people leave your village – and the song itself is hauntingly beautiful. It symbolizes not only sadness at the departure of friends, but also happiness for their presence and hope for the future. It is an altogether charming tradition.

I felt particularly melancholy as we steered through the choppy sea towards the mouth of the river. It felt like I wasn’t just farewelling the island, but also my friend and confidant of the past two years. Fallon and I would have just the one last night together, but our adventures together were all but over.

Robinson Crusoe Island had been very good to us, and I left the island vowing to come back someday. With the benefit of hindsight (I write this nearly two weeks after the fact) – I would say that it was by far the best place I stayed during my time in Fiji. Great people, the cheapest drinks I found, and a beautiful location all made for a perfect way to ring in the New Year.

All photos (unless otherwise noted) are the property of Cindy Farran.

Plans

Returning Soon

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My sincerest apologies for the lack of updates on here lately. Reliable internet has been quite a bit harder to find in Fiji than it was in New Zealand and I’m on the move pretty constantly as we drink, dive, and dance our way around the islands.

My Fijian odyssey is nearly at its end though, and normal publishing will resume in just a few days. I’ve got a half dozen entries on my time in Fiji I’m quite happy with as well as two more to come from New Zealand.

I’m back in Australia as of this Friday and then I jet out to South Korea a week later. Plenty going on and I’ll finally have the time to write some of it down once I get settled back in.

I hope everybody’s 2011 is off to a fabulous start thus far.

Morocco

Guest Post: A Moroccan Christmas

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It’s a few weeks late, but here is the final one of the Christmas abroad posts that I harassed and pleaded fellow bloggers to contribute. This one comes from my good friend Byron over at Byron & His Backpacks, who’s travels are the source of much envy on my part. A top bloke and a top writer, and here’s his take on spending Christmas in Morocco.

——————

My friend Chris over at Aussie on the Road has been hosting a series of guest posts about Christmases abroad. In four days I’ll celebrate my second Christmas in South Korea and my forth Christmas away from my family. Not bad for 37 years, although the first 17 I wasn’t really in any situation or had any motivation to go anywhere but where my dad was driving for Christmas dinner. The most similar Christmas abroad came in 2001 when I was in Edinburgh, Scotland. My first Christmas abroad was unlike anything I’d ever planned. I somehow managed to end up in the middle of the Sahara Desert going from Morocco to Mauritania back in 1998. To keep a long story short, I finished university, felt like going travelling; once England turned too cold in late November, I caught a quick flight to Faro in the south of Portugal and then ended up in southern Spain and Gibraltar.

It was in Gibraltar I stumbled upon a telling tome, one that would encompass the next five months of my life. Africa on a Shoestring by Lonely Planet. When I flipped through the book and realized I could take a ferry from Gibraltar to Tangier, Morocco… a book was sold. Once in Morocco, as I continued to read I found Morocco and Mauritania had a One Way Border.

A what? Exactly. Essentially the Moroccans found it funny to let people go from Morocco into Mauritania, whereas the Mauritanians didn’t play that game. Get in Mauritania, stay in Mauritania.

So I had to try to do that.

***

Christmas Eve (24/12/1998)
– A Christmas Eve’s Busride

I’m able to catch the SATAS bus – aka ‘the Racing Camel’ – to Dahkla. Now this was a joyous 19 hour bus ride – the highlights are; the Harira (traditional Muslim soup) of Laâyoune, second and third place on Amazon Hunt II (pinball) in Laâyoune, discovering that there is a Arabic Comedy Radio show as everyone on the bus laughed the trip away, my mini 1-day Ramadan and, of course, the singing of the Mauritanian women as we were dragged off bus five times between 8pm and 5am for passport checks. Oh yah, lots of sleep THAT night.

Incidentally, if you want to know what the Sahara Desert looks like, sand. Lots and lots of sand.

 

 

Sunset over the Sahara, Christmas Day, 1998.

Christmas Day (25/12/1998)
– A sandy sort of Christmas

I arrive in Dahkla at about 5:30am and I know that if I sleep I’ll miss the convoy and I’ll be stuck in Dahkla until Tuesday,(Christmas Day was on a Friday in ’98) so a lack of sleep wins out. Now being as it’s the middle of Ramadan nothing opens on time, instead it opens late, if it opens at all. In order to join the convoy headed for Mauritania I have to go to three separate and distant places, fill out forms and get to the meetin gplace. The convoy ‘leaves’ at 11am and nothing opens until 9:30am. Do the math. I don’t have time to mess about. With the help of an Italian lady, who is also a late addition to the convoy, we get it all done. Whew!

(Byron 2010: Heh, my writing was very minimal 12 years ago, but it’s kinda fun to see how it’s evolved.)

At the convoy I end up landing a ride with a German fellow named Phillip after I trolled up and down the ranks of cars offering my charm and complete inexperience in desert travel. Philip, who is going to the desert of Mali in a Water Joe van. Water Joe is a caffineated water, which tastes just like water. I managed to grab an hour’s sleep in his van.

The convoy embarks at… 3pm.

Since I had to play “Dahkla Registration Race,” I didn’t ‘officially‘ have time to go shopping for supplies. I’m on short rations for the rest of the day (and next.) Philip and I spend much of the journey talking about the Simpsons.

In German, Homer doesn’t say “doh” he says “nein.” Then I try to pick up some German, much to Philip’s amusement. Philip is a great guy, during the next couple of days he will lend me; food, a thermalrest and most importantly, friendship. In return I think I gave him some laughs and a person to talk to during the desert trek. His tape player broker in Dahkla. Dammit, rocking in the desert to the Scorpions and David Hasselhoff would have been epic!

All I can truly say about the Sahara Desert Trek is that Ian (my brother) would have loved this ‘road,’ if he didn’t snap and curse out the whole country. I have never, ever, ever, ever seen a ‘road‘ quite like this. It was once paved, I don’t know when, or by whom or with what – I’d guess early 15th Century, but for at least 20 kms we experienced a sand-coated roller coaster ride!

This is also where I witnessed the picture above, one of the most amazing sunsets I’ve ever seen.

Around 8:30pm we reached the ‘campsite,’ well, it had 2 cement bunkers and… that’s about it. I was hoping to buy food here, but there is nothing but cement, sand and soldiers.

The convoy and the bunkers. Dec 26, 1998.

Oh, about the convoy, there are around 65 cars, plus about 10 motorbikes. These vehicles range from compacts to massive boxes on wheels called unimogs. I’d guess there is easily 150 people in the convoy, likely closer to 200.

Finally, eventually, thankfully Mario from Mozambique cooked up some cous-cous which was filling and good. (It must have been good to warrant it’s own sentence in my journal.)

I’d planned to call home at 8am, but there was no phone in the middle of the desert. But a concrete slab to sleep on inside the bunker.