Back to Fiji: The Island Paradise That Quietly Rewrote My Future

In May 2005, I returned to Fiji after ten years.

Not because I had planned some beautifully organised “spiritual journey back to the South Pacific,” with a notebook full of dreams and a playlist of ukulele music. No. The truth was far less poetic and much more German tax-consulting-office-related.

I had just quit my job in Munich.

Again, it was a tax consultancy office. Again, the atmosphere had become unhealthy. And again, I discovered that my personal tolerance for office drama, bad energy, and grey Munich routine was somewhere between “not much” and “please get me out of here before I start talking to the photocopier.”

So I left.

At first, I thought about going to India. India was affordable, intense, fascinating — and probably completely wrong for my emotional state at that moment. A friend told me quite directly that India might not be the best place to heal a tired and slightly damaged soul.

Good advice.

So I chose Australia instead.

By then, I had already been to Australia three times since autumn 2002. I knew the country quite well and had a list of places I still wanted to see. Australia felt familiar enough, but still far away enough from Munich. That was exactly what I needed.

But Australia is not the story today.

Because then the Australian winter arrived.

And when I escaped north, hoping for warmth and sunshine, northern Australia greeted me with rain. Not a little romantic tropical rain. More like: “Here, have some emotional humidity with your depression.”

My soul looked at the sky and said, “Absolutely not.”

So I started searching for flights into the South Pacific.

Papua New Guinea appeared as an affordable option, but Australians warned me about high costs and security concerns there. Since I was looking for healing and not necessarily for a survival training course, I decided to fly to Fiji.

And just like that, ten years after my first visit in 1995, I was back.

Back in Nadi — and Back at the New Westgate Hotel

A lot had changed in Fiji.

But one thing was still there: my hotel from ten years before, the New Westgate Hotel in Nadi. There was something comforting about that. After all the movement, confusion, and rain, I had landed in a place that remembered me — even if the hotel itself probably didn’t.

Nadi was still the classic first stop for many travelers arriving in Fiji. Close to the airport, practical, a little chaotic, full of tour desks, travel offices, shops, taxi drivers, and that unmistakable feeling of being at the gateway to somewhere better.

And in Fiji, “somewhere better” often means the islands.

This time, I wanted to do what I had not really done properly in 1995: go to the Yasawa Islands and stay longer.

The Yasawas are a chain of volcanic islands northwest of Viti Levu, Fiji’s main island. They are famous for white beaches, turquoise lagoons, dramatic hills, small villages, coral reefs, and that dangerous South Pacific disease called “I will leave tomorrow,” which often turns into “maybe next week.”

Back in 1995, reaching these islands had been far more complicated. The regular tourist ferry system did not exist yet. But in 2005, things were different. There was now a ferry service to the Yasawas, and that changed everything.

A lady at the tour desk in the New Westgate Hotel helped me organize a trip to Tavewa Island and booked me into a place called David’s Place.

At that moment, I thought: perfect. Small island, remote setting, food included, sea nearby. What could possibly go wrong?

Well.

Let’s just say Fiji had prepared a little comedy program for me first.

A Short Note About Fiji’s Political Background

Fiji is one of the most fascinating countries in the South Pacific, but also one with a complicated history.

The population is mainly made up of Indigenous Fijians, today often referred to as iTaukei, and Indo-Fijians, descendants of Indian laborers brought by the British during colonial times to work mainly in the sugar industry. For decades, Fiji’s economy, politics, and land issues were shaped by tensions between these communities.

Many businesses were traditionally in Indo-Fijian hands, and many Indo-Fijians were seen as commercially very successful. At the same time, many Indigenous Fijians felt that wealth and economic power were not distributed fairly. This tension contributed to political instability, including coups in 1987 and again in 2000.

I don’t want to turn this into a political essay — don’t worry, no exam at the end — but it helps to understand why tourism also changed. After the political upheavals, more village-owned and Indigenous Fijian-operated tourism projects developed, especially in places like the Yasawas. In theory, this was a good thing: tourism money could stay more directly with local communities.

In practice, as I was about to learn, not every new place was paradise.

Some were paradise.

Some were… character-building.

David’s Place — Or: How to Milk a Tourist Without Even Giving Him Enough Dinner

The ferry to the Yasawas was full.

That alone already showed how much had changed since 1995. The Yasawas had become accessible. Backpackers, couples, island dreamers, sunseekers, divers, and people like me — emotionally tired Europeans escaping bad office air — were all heading north.

I arrived at David’s Place on Tavewa Island with high hopes.

Unfortunately, my hopes were better equipped than the accommodation.

The place felt less like a warm island retreat and more like a machine designed to milk tourists. And not even in a charming way. The facilities were terrible, the food was awfully bad, and worst of all, there was not even enough of it.

On the outer islands, accommodation normally includes meals because there are no restaurants, supermarkets, bakeries, late-night kebab shops, or emergency chocolate suppliers. If the resort food is bad, you cannot just walk down the road and find a better option.

There is no road.

There is only you, the sea, and your tragic plate.

After two nights, I had seen enough.

I packed my things and went back to Nadi, back to the New Westgate Hotel, and back to the lady at the tour desk.

She listened to my report, probably thinking, “Ah yes, another survivor,” and then told me there was still a place I would love.

Not like.

Love.

She promised.

The place was called Oarsman Bay Lodge, on Nacula Island, just opposite Tavewa.

At that point, I needed something nice badly. So the next day, I was back on the ferry, heading once more into the Yasawas.

And this time, Fiji got it right.

Oarsman Bay Lodge — Arrival in Paradise, Including Tent Service

From the moment I arrived at Oarsman Bay Lodge, everything felt different.

The welcome was warm. Not professionally warm in the hotel-school way, where someone smiles because the training manual says so. This was real warmth. Human warmth. Island warmth.

I felt taken care of immediately, almost as if I had arrived at a rehabilitation center for damaged souls.

Which, honestly, I had.

My accommodation was my tent. But even that became part of the magic. Oarsman Bay was more of a small hotel than a rough backpacker place, but they welcomed me and my tent without hesitation. They even put the tent up for me and gave me a proper hotel bed mattress.

Now, that is what I call luxury camping.

Forget “glamping” with champagne and fake safari furniture. My version was much better: a tent under palm trees, on soft grass, facing the sea and the surrounding Yasawa islands, with a real mattress and the sound of the ocean nearby.

That was enough.

More than enough.

It felt like paradise.

The beach at Oarsman Bay was stunning. Long, bright, peaceful, framed by hills and palm trees, with water shifting between blue, turquoise, and impossible postcard colors. The kind of view that makes you forgive life for a while.

I had planned to stay two weeks.

Of course, I stayed three.

Because that is what happened at Oarsman Bay. People arrived with plans and then slowly, quietly, happily lost them.

The Island Family

Oarsman Bay was not just beautiful. It was alive.

The guests and staff got to know each other. Not in that artificial resort-entertainment way where someone organizes “fun activities” with a microphone. This was natural. We ate together, talked together, laughed together, went on trips together, and after a few days, everyone felt part of something.

I made many friends there.

There was a couple from Ireland, another couple from Australia, several solo travelers from Europe and Australia, and then one day, a young German couple arrived. He was a kite surfer, searching for good wind.

At the time, none of us knew that this German couple would become part of a strange chain reaction that would later lead me to Melissa — Lizz — in the Philippines.

But that is how life works sometimes.

You sit under palm trees in Fiji, talking to people you just met, and one year later your entire life changes because of one of those contacts.

Crazy world.

And the funny thing is: while you are living those moments, you have no idea which one will become important later. You think you are just drinking coffee, eating fish, or complaining about sunburn. Then, years later, you realize: ah, that was the beginning of everything.

Farewell Songs and Daily Tears

One of the most emotional things at Oarsman Bay happened whenever guests left.

Because larger ships could not land directly at the beach, departing guests were taken by small motorboat out to meet the ferry. The staff would gather on the beach and sing farewell songs as the boat pulled away.

This was not tourist theatre.

It was emotional. Very emotional.

The departing guests cried. The staff cried. And even those of us who were not leaving cried while watching them cry.

It became almost a daily ritual of tears.

At first, I thought, “Why is everybody crying? They only stayed here for one week.”

Three days later, I understood.

Oarsman Bay did something to people. It opened them. It softened them. Maybe it was the beauty, maybe the kindness, maybe the simplicity of life there. Maybe it was the fact that nobody had to pretend very much.

And when people left, it felt like they were leaving family.

By the time I left, I was completely useless. The staff cried, we cried, the Irish couple cried, the German couple cried. Fiji probably needed to import extra tissues that week.

As our little boat moved away from the shore, the staff kept waving. We could still see them waving long after the beach had become smaller and smaller.

That picture stayed with me.

Hiking, Villages, Fishing, and the Blue Lagoon

The days at Oarsman Bay were full, but never stressful.

We hiked into the hills of Nacula Island, where the views over the Yasawas were breathtaking. These islands are not flat coconut-poster islands only. They have shape, character, dry grassy slopes, rocky ridges, and beautiful viewpoints where the sea opens in every direction.

We also visited the area connected with the movie The Blue Lagoon, the famous 1980 film with Brooke Shields. Of course, the lodge arranged a video night once a week showing the movie.

Naturally.

If you live near a place made famous by The Blue Lagoon, you show The Blue Lagoon. That is not tourism. That is destiny.

We also visited the local village. This was one of the most meaningful parts of the stay. The village owned the hotel, and many of the lodge staff came from there. So when we visited, we were not entering some staged attraction. We were visiting the homes of people who had already become our friends.

The school children danced for us. Villagers sold handmade souvenirs. Staff members introduced us to their families. It created a connection that was much deeper than the usual guest-and-hotel relationship.

Other days, we went fishing.

Not gentle little fishing either. We went out to sea, hoping to catch something impressive enough to later exaggerate shamelessly. Our catches usually ended up in the dinner buffet, which was nice in theory.

In theory.

But since we had paid for the fishing trips, some of us began to notice that our fish returned to us at dinner in rather symbolic form. A small piece here, a mysterious fin there, perhaps a memory of a fish if one looked carefully.

Our little group of about six friends eventually raised the issue with the management.

An experienced Australian couple managed the lodge, and they understood immediately. Instead of dismissing our concern, they arranged something wonderful for us: they took us to a beautiful beach and cooked the day’s catch for our group.

That was perfect.

A private beach, fresh fish, friends, Fiji, and finally enough of our own catch to eat more than just the emotional remains of it.

This is how complaints should always end.

A Place Too Beautiful to Leave

I had arrived tired, disappointed, and emotionally worn out.

Oarsman Bay changed that.

It wasn’t just the beach, though the beach was spectacular. It wasn’t just the food, though after David’s Place, proper meals already felt like a miracle. It wasn’t just the tent under palm trees, though I still think it was one of the best “rooms” I ever had.

It was the whole feeling.

The staff cared. The guests connected. The island slowed everything down. Days became simple again. Swim, eat, talk, hike, fish, laugh, watch the sea, make friends, cry at farewell songs, repeat.

For someone coming from a toxic office atmosphere in Munich, this was powerful medicine.

And somewhere inside those days, without knowing it, a new chapter of my life had already begun.

The Chain Reaction That Led to Lizz

When I left Oarsman Bay, I left together with the Irish couple and the German couple.

We all knew we had to stay in touch. This wasn’t one of those empty travel promises where people say, “We must meet again,” and then disappear into the international black hole of forgotten email addresses.

We really did meet again later—in Ireland, Austria, and Munich.

Almost a year later, the German couple encouraged me to use Skype so we could call each other for free. Skype was still something exciting then, almost futuristic. Imagine: talking to people abroad through the computer! What next, phones without buttons? Well, Yahoo Messenger was around too, but Skype was a revolution!

So I installed it.

Shortly after setting it up, I received a message from someone I didn’t know.

A woman from the Philippines.

Just saying hello.

I was surprised. I had no idea strangers could message you like that on Skype. But before dealing with this mysterious digital event, I decided to take my bike along the Isar River in Munich.

Priorities.

Later that afternoon, I came back to the computer and opened the message again.

I saw her photo.

I liked it.

Her name was Melissa.

Lizz.

She was apparently a little bored at work and had sent a simple hello.

I replied.

And a few months later, I flew to meet her in the Philippines.

But that is the topic of another article.

So yes, strangely and beautifully, my return to Fiji in 2005 became much more than a South Pacific escape. It became the beginning of a chain of coincidences that eventually led me to the person who would change my life.

It started with a bad job in Munich, too much rain in Australia, a disappointing stay on Tavewa, a wonderful tour desk lady in Nadi, a tent under palm trees at Oarsman Bay, a German kite surfer, Skype, and one unexpected message from the Philippines.

Life is strange.

Fiji was paradise.

And sometimes paradise does not only heal you.

Sometimes it quietly redirects your entire future.

Stay tuned.