Accommodation, Fiji, Scuba

Cyclone Warning at Mantaray

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Squalling winds and torrential rain are our constant companions on our three night stay at Mantaray Island. The oppressive sky overhead is a startling contrast to the clear skies and bright sun we were treated to at Mango Bay. I’d have to work twice as hard to get half as sunburned as I did in my five days there.

Our beachfront bure lives up to its name. The pleasantly blue-green water laps soothingly on a coral strewn beach just ten steps from where our staircase ends. Grant and I warily eye the single Queen sized bed that the room boasts. Neither of us much fancies being little spoon.

“He’s not really my type,” I tell the lady who escorted us to our room. She laughs without restraint.

“Don’t worry,” she assures us, “We will bring a mattress for tonight and move you to a double room tomorrow”.

After dorm life, we are in the lap of luxury. Grant slumps into the beanbag and I “ooh” and “aah” at the spacious bathroom. At first I’m put off by the biodegradable toilet, but no trace of foul odor wafts up from below. The shower might be cold, but it’s clean and it’s private. It’s totally worth the girlish squeals it elicits from we two burly men.

Beautiful Mantaray Island. Photo by controvento

The distant beating of drums summons us to lunch. A moderately steep climb means you well and truly ern your al a carte lunch. A chalkboard menu gives us eight options, although I’m dismayed to see my first choice wiped off before I have a chance to order. I settle for the surprisingly good fish burger instead. There are near orgasmic moans from my group as they wolf down their beef burgers or personal pizzas. Thumbs go up around the table.

After our lunch and some ice cold sodas we retire to our rooms. Sleep comes shortly after, but we’re alert enough to be back up at the dining area before the drums beat for dinner. Tonight is a Fijian lovo (earth oven) buffet, and by the time the drum does beat we’re already well into a rousing game of ‘Asshole’.

It’s perhaps not as good as the lovo Fallon and I enjoyed on Robinson Crusoe Island. The chicken is mostly bone and the salad dishes are uniformly flavorless. But the Kokoda is flavorful and the mush of spinach and corn beef is surprisingly good. My brothers love the vegetarian curry and we all return for seconds of the scone like rolls. Buffet rules mean we’re all satisfied by meals end, but that doesn’t stop us from grabbing overpriced chocolate bars for the road.

Our game of asshole resumes in earnest, and we’re soon joined by a pair of criminally good looking Swedes. Nat and Matt met just before she moved to Australia to study English, and their long distance romance has culminated in this trip through Fiji and Australia.

They explain that in Sweden, ‘Asshole’ has a different name. I know it’s called ‘Presidents and Assholes’ in the US, but I’m shocked to hear that it’s known as ‘President and Nigger’ in the Scandinavian country.

More drums call us away from the dining hall and back to the beachside bar. The rain is bucketing down as we run down slippery steps.

“We’re having a wet t-shirt contest,” boasts Natalie as she and a pair of Aussie girls arrive breathless at the covered beach-side lounge.

The Fijian dance (or Meke) is quite similar to what Fallon and I saw at the Mitai Maori show in Rotorua, although the singing is more melodic. The men take great pleasure in getting in the faces of pretty girls and watching then squeal, while the women seek out the shyest looking men to coax onto the dancefloor.

“Shake it baby!” they saucily shout at we awkward foreigners as we shuffle about the floor.

Soon it’s time for the snake dance (similar to a conga line), and we are all on our feet to dance out into the rain and back into shelter. Some get more into it than others, and I can’t help but feel the night could well have devolved into drunken foolishness were it not for the wind and rain.

The traditional Fijian farewell song brings an end to things. It’s haunting in its beauty, singing not only of sadness and longing but also joy in the time spent together. It is a fitting example of Fiji’s open and loving culture.

Hands are shaken and vinaka (thank you) said, and then we’re left to our own devices. The weather has clearly dampened spirits. Most head off to their bures or dormitories, and those of us who remain are sedate despite the upbeat music and nearby bar.

My group and the Swedish couple play ‘Asshole’ well into the evening. Vonu flows and so do stories of must see Sydney sights and places to scuba dive in Europe and northern Africa. Before we part ways we exchange contact info. I’m told to let them know when I am in Sweden so they can take me skiing, and I make them promise to visit Hart’s Pub when they are next in Sydney.

Our first day at Mantaray is over, and with a cyclone warning for the area, our hopes of sun-baking and dominating beach volleyball seem all but dashed. But the house reef is a short paddle off shore and card games work better when it’s wet outside.

I doze off to the sound of rain and the ocean lapping at the shore. Despite my lingering sadness over parting ways with my best friend and girlfriend of two years – I’m in a good place.

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The view from Mantaray Island's dining hall. Photo by Hector Garcia

It’s 8.30pm on our last night at Mantaray and the ever present wind and rain provide a pleasant soundtrack to tonight’s lazing about. Our buffet dinner sits heavy in our bellies and sleep doesn’t seem too far off.

Despite the torrid conditions, we’ve managed to have a good time on the island. Our second day began with us skipping breakfast in favor of an early morning snorkel. Despite being told the reef was just offshore, it’s still a surprise to dip our heads into the water and see the vibrant colors of coral and the fish that call the reef home. Even on the Barrier Reef I didn’t see such an array of aquatic life.

A strong current tugs us along the beach and we let it do the work for us. Beneath us a tapestry of the brightest colors unfolds on the sandy bottom. Grant is befriended by an inquisitive clownfish while I take a not so secret pleasure in pointing out various fish that I recognize from my dives on the Great Barrier Reef last October.

As we near the end of the resort’s stretch of beach we make our way to shore, walk back to where we began, and wade eagerly back in to do it all again.

Later that night we gather in the covered bar for the evening’s entertainment – pitching in $1 each to sponsor a hermit crab in the crab race. My charge is a plucky and unbelievably fast little guy, but he predictably gets stage fright when the race begins. None of our group win, but Grant and I find that our crustacean companions make admirable wingmen as we strike up a conversation with a trio of pretty girls from northern NSW. I soon splinter off to chat with a Norweigan sports journalist – a girl whose knowledge of football is perhaps the best I’ve ever encountered.

While we discuss the plight of woman’s football the limbo competition begins, and it’s one of my Australian compatriots who wins the guest competition. The resort’s impossibly flexible South African dive instructor takes out the overall prize and does it in fine style. His beer never once leaves his hand.

The crowd filters out as the night wears on, and soon Grant and I remain along with the trio of Aussie girls and a pair of American med students. Games of shithead and recounts of past embarassing stories are lubricated by a seemingly endless stream of cold beers interspersed with shots of vodka.

One of the med students is particularly taken with the only one of the girls in a relationship and finds her continued resistance to his drunken advances most agitating. It all ends in tears when she upends a bottle if water over his head. The last time I saw him he was curled up asleep in the corner with the radio held close to his chest.

I shouldn’t make fun of him. The closest I get to romance is an intimate moment I share with the sand after I drunkenly fall out of a hammock.

It’s fun all the same.

Sunday dawns with Leigh, Dominik, and Bronte attempting to kayak in the rough waters. It’s all going well until Dom goes to check on Bronte. She accidentally catches him in the back of his head with her oar and sends him tumbling into the warm water. Leigh has the presence of mind to intercept his rogue kayak, but the wind has picked up and soon he’s being whisked out to sea.

Dominik swims to shore and races along the beach hoping to cut Leigh off but it’s a hopeless cause. Leigh relinquishes his grip on the pilotless vessel and comes in to shore where the staff make short work of retrieving the misplaced kayak.

Later that afternoon I’m lolling in a hammock when the resort’s dive instructor stops by to see if we were interested in a dive. My laziness is pushed back by a sudden desire to do something exciting, and before too long I’m riding out through choppy waters to a spot a few dozen meters offshore.

It’s remarkable how quickly I remember all I learned in Cairns last year, and I eagerly help out Grant and Leigh as they familiarize themselves with their equipment.

We enter the water at a roll and after the two rookies are given some pointers, we drift slowly towards the sandy seafloor. There’s driving rain and howling wind in the world above, but we’re submerged in pleasantly warm waters showing no signs of the turmoil above. The serenity is beautiful.

There’s no need for wetsuits as we explore the coral rich house reef. We spot moray eels, lion fish, and even a white tip reef shark during our journey – although Leigh and Grant don’t get to do much sight-seeing as they struggle to master the difficulties of maintaining buoyancy.


A friendly white tip reef shark stopped by to say hello. Photo by Boogies with Fish

Our dive lasts half an hour and goes to a depth of ten meters, and it’s over all too soon. The look of excitement in Leigh’s eyes is perhaps matched by my own. I’d perhaps worried that I’d slip into old habits without Fallon and her boundless enthusiasm, but here I was fresh off my first dive since attaining my certification. I may yet do another at our final stop – Waya Lailai.

Our final night on the island is another drunken one. What starts out as my brothers and I having a drink in honor of my parent’s 29th wedding anniversary turns into a marathon Phase 10 session. That in turn becomes drinking until the wee hours as Grant and I again team up with the trio of Aussie girls, the med students, and a pair of business students from New York. Card games, dreadful shooters, random conversations, and peanut fights ensue. By 2am I’m too tired to continue and so I make promises to be at breakfast that I’m 90% sure I won’t keep. It’s now 2am and I resist the urge to add to an already bloated phone bill by shooting out a swarm of drunken text messages.

The weather hasn’t been agreeable, but Mantaray Island certainly has. I could spend several more weeks here exploring the multitude of dive sites that lay nearby, and there’s a definite charm to the rainforest lined paths that lead between bures.

The staff have quickly learned our names and seem genuinely happy to see us whenever we meet. While the facilities might not be as lavish as those at Mango Bay, there’s a lot to be said for the pleasant blend of friendliness and pride here that was lacking on the Coral Coast. I’ll be sad to leave tomorrow when the Yasawa Flier comes to whisk us away to the final island paradise if our trip.

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.