Another night flight.
This time from Rarotonga to Fiji.
On the evening of May 17, 1995, I left the Cook Islands and flew west across the Pacific. The flight itself was not very long, maybe around four hours, but something very strange happened on the way.
I lost a whole day.
Not emotionally.
Officially.
Because somewhere between Rarotonga and Fiji, the airplane crossed the International Date Line.
Now, the International Date Line is one of those human inventions that makes perfect sense on a map and feels completely ridiculous when it steals one day from your holiday. Flying west across it, the calendar jumps forward. So you leave Rarotonga in the evening of May 17, and after a few hours in the air, you arrive in Fiji on May 18.
In my case, I left Rarotonga around 7 PM on the 17th and arrived in Nadi late on the 18th.
Outrageous.
I felt cheated.
One day of my trip was gone. One day of my life too, if we want to be dramatic about it. Of course, I knew deep inside that my body had not really lived one day less. It was only the calendar playing tricks. But still, when you are travelling on a limited budget and with limited vacation days, every day counts.
The Pacific had already given me salt, wind, beauty, emotion, and cockroaches.
Now it was stealing time.
Welcome to Fiji.
Arrival in Nadi and the Hotel at the End of the Runway
My memories of arriving in Nadi after all these years are covered in thick fog. Not romantic fog. More like the fog that appears when 33 years, night flights, cheap rooms, and too many island impressions mix together.
But one thing I remember very clearly.
I ended up in the cheapest place in Nadi.
That was the wrong decision.
The transfer to my accommodation was very short. Very, very short. In fact, it was so short because the place was located just a few metres from the end of the runway, exactly where arriving airplanes came down to land.
At first, I probably thought: “Practical. Close to the airport.”
Later I understood: “Close to the airport” can mean two very different things.
There is “conveniently located near the airport.”
And then there is “the Boeing 747 is checking your roof tiles.”
I was exhausted, fell into bed, and fell asleep immediately.
Until a jumbo jet flew over the roof.
I sat up in bed as if someone had detonated a bomb next to my pillow.
The plane roared over the building and landed. My heart was still trying to return to normal when, before I could fall asleep again, the next landing in paradise arrived.
Another aircraft.
Another roar.
Another reminder that 24 Deutsche Marks per night for a double room can have small disadvantages.
Actually, not so small.
I remembered Lonely Planet. I remembered the German man from Fiji who had warned me about choosing this place. But 24 Deutsche Marks a night had sounded very convincing to me. Sometimes budget travel is not about choosing the best option. It is about learning why the cheapest option was the cheapest option.
After a few more landings and take-offs, it became very clear: I would not stay here for nine nights.
Actually, I had only planned three nights.
Even that would not happen.
After a mostly sleepless night, I got up before sunrise and walked outside the hotel, up and down the street. Except for this hotel, there were no other buildings nearby. Just open space, runway atmosphere, and the occasional feeling that another aircraft might soon use my head as a navigation point.
But I have to admit one thing.
It was exciting.
Standing there so close to the runway and seeing huge airplanes take off and land from such a short distance was impressive. Today, in my memory, it feels as if they passed not more than 50 metres above me. Maybe memory exaggerates a little. But not much.
It was loud, dramatic, and unforgettable.
A great experience.
For one morning.
Not for sleeping.
A Better Hotel and Finally Arriving in Fiji
Later, I called the German tour operator and asked him to arrange another accommodation for me.
He told me he could book me into the New Westgate Hotel in Nadi. It would cost about double the original amount, but the price was still reasonable for the comfort.
I moved.
Immediately.
Once I arrived there, I finally felt that I had arrived in another island paradise. Not the dramatic paradise of Moorea, not the quiet lagoon dream of Aitutaki, but Fiji — warmer, broader, busier, and somehow more earthy.
That day was dedicated to recovery.
Resting by the pool.
Sleeping.
Walking a little in Nadi.
And having a few Fiji Bitters at the hotel bar.
Fiji Bitter became part of the Fiji experience very quickly. After Cook Lager in Rarotonga and Hinano in Tahiti, my South Pacific journey was also slowly becoming a comparative beer study. Very scientific, of course.
At the hotel bar, I finally met the man who had made much of this journey possible: Horst Kelly Sach, the German tour organizer from Fiji, together with his wife.
He had not only arranged my South Pacific route at a price I could afford, but he had also written a German travel handbook for individual travellers in the South Pacific — something like a German answer to Lonely Planet. At that time, before the internet, such books and such people were incredibly important. They were the bridge between a dream and an actual ticket.
I was delighted to meet them and thanked them for helping me make the trip possible.
My memory shows them as a striking couple: both tall and slim. His wife was beautiful, and he had shoulder-length hair and a moustache. I also remember something about her being connected to the family of a Fijian tourism minister, maybe even his daughter.
But I must be careful here.
By then, I may already have had too many Fiji Bitters and a few of those fantastic cheap cocktails at the bar. So let us say: this is how my memory stored it. Memory, alcohol, and tropical evenings are not always perfect historians.
Anyway, we had a very friendly meeting and arranged a few more tours before they left.
After all these years, I realize that my emotional attention had been strongest in Moorea. For Fiji, I had to dig much deeper to bring back the memories. But certain things never disappear.
A hotel under the runway.
A good bar.
A sailing ship.
Kava.
Indian food in a van.
And the Bligh Waters.
Those stayed.
Sailing on the Ra Marama
One of the best things I did in Fiji was a three-day sailing trip on the schooner Ra Marama.
That trip was another dream come true.
Sailing on a real sailing ship.
Not just sitting on a ferry. Not just crossing from one island to another. But actually sailing, with sails, ropes, wind, sea, and that feeling that you are doing something people had done for centuries before airplanes stole the romance from long-distance travel.
Of course, there was one question.
How would my stomach handle this adventure?
It was my first time on such a sailing trip, and my stomach had not yet submitted its official opinion. The Pacific can be beautiful, yes, but also very active. I hoped my body would understand that this was a dream and behave accordingly.
I was picked up early in the morning and driven to Port Denarau, the marina near Nadi. I remember the longer drive and how busy the port felt. Boats, passengers, supplies, crews, island transfers, people with bags, and that excited chaos that belongs to harbours.
And then I saw her.
The Ra Marama.
A white sailing ship waiting in the harbour.
As far as I remember, she had once been a motor vessel before being rebuilt into a sailing ship, or at least into a vessel with both motor and sails. That was actually very practical. Romantic dreams are nice, but if the wind decides to be lazy, a motor is a useful friend.
The ship looked well maintained, and my curiosity reached top level immediately.
There were maybe around twenty guests, including me, and perhaps ten crew members. Not a huge crowd. Small enough to feel like an adventure. Big enough that I could hope someone else would get seasick first if the ocean became unfriendly.
The anchor was raised.
The motor started.
The harbour slowly disappeared behind us.
And Fiji opened in front of us.
Into Bligh Water
We sailed toward the island groups northwest of Viti Levu, crossing the waters that are connected with one of the most famous stories of the South Pacific: the Mutiny on the Bounty.
Bligh Water is named after William Bligh, the captain of HMS Bounty.
And with that, my childhood fascination returned once again.
The same story that had helped ignite my dreams of Tahiti and the South Pacific was suddenly not only a movie memory anymore. I was sailing through waters connected to the real historical drama.
In 1789, after the mutiny on the Bounty near Tonga, Captain Bligh and eighteen loyal men were forced into a small open launch. What followed became one of the greatest survival voyages in maritime history. Bligh navigated more than 3,600 nautical miles across the Pacific to Timor with almost no proper equipment, little food, little water, and a very serious shortage of comfort.
On the way, he passed through the region of Fiji.
At that time, European sailors feared the islands. Fiji had a reputation among Europeans for warfare and cannibalism in the 18th century, and Bligh had already lost one man, John Norton, during an attack on Tofua shortly after the mutiny. So he was determined not to stop on unknown islands unless absolutely necessary.
That decision probably saved them.
For me, sailing there more than 200 years later, the situation was slightly improved.
We had a crew.
We had food.
We had Fiji Bitter.
And, very important, nobody seemed interested in eating us.
Progress.
Beachcomber Island and the Swiss Reinforcements
Our first stop was Beachcomber Island, one of the well-known small resort islands in the Mamanuca group. Beachcomber had a reputation as a lively backpacker and party island. Even in 1995, it already had that “many friends were made here last night” atmosphere.
We stopped only to pick up a few more passengers.
Among them were three guys from Switzerland. I remember them clearly because they looked as if there had been more than coffee in their cups that morning.
They seemed to have made many friends on Beachcomber Island.
Possibly all night.
But they were cheerful, friendly, and ready for the next part of the trip, even if their bodies were perhaps still negotiating with the previous evening.
We continued sailing north toward the Yasawa Islands.
The Yasawas are different from the flatter Mamanuca Islands near Nadi. They feel more remote, more rugged, more dramatic. Long volcanic islands, dry hills in some areas, green slopes in others, small villages, beaches, and blue water between them. In 1995, the Yasawas still felt much less developed than many island destinations today.
No drones.
No Instagram.
No booking apps.
Just boats, beaches, villages, and the sea.
Camp on Waya Island
We sailed until we reached Waya Island, where the crew dropped anchor.
We were not supposed to sleep on board. Instead, we would sleep in a camp on the island.
Small boats brought us ashore.
The tents were already waiting for us on a grassy area slightly above the beach, with a beautiful view of the sea and the surrounding islands. It looked simple, but very nice. Exactly the kind of place where you do not need luxury because the location itself is already doing all the work.
The shower and toilet area was basic.
Very basic.
But for two nights, and for a guy of my age at that time, it was absolutely fine. I was young enough that “basic facilities” still sounded like “adventure” and not like “back pain with plumbing concerns.”
Only the adventure counted.
By late afternoon, the crew started preparing dinner, which would take place in a half-open cave. That alone already sounded like something from a South Pacific adventure movie.
Dinner in a cave.
On an island.
After sailing.
If someone had handed me a pirate hat, I might have worn it.
My First Kava Ceremony
That evening, we had a kava ceremony.
Maybe before dinner.
Maybe after dinner.
Maybe both.
Memory and Fiji Bitter have negotiated this part privately.
Kava, called yaqona in Fiji, is one of the most important traditional drinks in Fiji. It is made from the root of the kava plant, Piper methysticum. The root is dried, pounded or ground, mixed with water, and served from a large wooden bowl called a tanoa.
The result looks like muddy water.
And, to be honest, it also tastes a little like muddy water.
But it is much more than a drink. A kava ceremony is about welcome, respect, community, and sharing. The drink is served in a coconut shell cup called a bilo. Usually, there is clapping before and after drinking. You accept the bilo, often say “Bula,” drink it in one go if possible, and then clap again.
The effect is mild but noticeable. Your mouth and lips become numb, and you may feel relaxed, calm, maybe a little dreamy.
My mouth became numb very quickly.
So naturally, I drank beer to wash the numbness away.
This was probably not the official medical recommendation, but it felt logical at the time.
The crew played music, sang traditional songs, and created an atmosphere I will never forget. Fijians love to sing, and they really can. Their voices are strong, warm, and full of harmony. One of the musicians played ukulele, and I remember that he was Samoan. The others joined with singing, clapping, and even spoons used as rhythm instruments.
It was simple.
It was beautiful.
It was real.
The night became long.
Passengers and crew sat together, drank kava, drank beer, talked, laughed, and slowly got to know each other. Today I only clearly remember a few people: a young German couple living in New Zealand, three Australian ladies in their forties, and the three Swiss guys who were just a little older than me and already seemed very experienced in island nightlife.
It was one of those evenings where strangers become a small temporary family.
For two days, at least.
That is one of the nicest things about travel.
Temporary families everywhere.
Morning Peace in the Yasawas
The next morning, as usual, I was one of the first to get up.
I have always loved those early moments when most people are still sleeping and the world feels almost private. The beach was quiet. The sea was calm. The surrounding islands of the Yasawa group were lying in the morning light.
It was peaceful in a way that is hard to describe.
No office.
No traffic.
No German tax consultancy.
No fax machine.
Just islands, sea, and morning air.
I stood there and thought again about William Bligh. He had passed through this region under completely different circumstances — hungry, exhausted, frightened, responsible for the lives of his men, and avoiding the islands because he feared attack.
I was standing there with breakfast waiting.
History can make you very grateful for small comforts.
A Village Visit and More Kava
After breakfast, we helped set the sails and sailed around the islands.
At one island, we stopped and visited a village.
Before entering a Fijian village, it is important to show respect. Traditionally, visitors bring kava root as a gift. This presentation is called sevusevu. It is not just a souvenir exchange. It is a formal gesture asking permission to enter the village and be accepted as guests.
The kava root is offered to the village chief or spokesman. If accepted, visitors are welcomed, and often a kava ceremony follows. It is a beautiful tradition because it makes clear that you are not just walking into someone’s home and treating it like a museum.
You are a guest.
And you behave like one.
The villagers welcomed us, held another kava ceremony, and presented traditional dances and songs. Again, the singing was wonderful. There is something about Fijian voices that fills the space completely. Strong, warm, and full of life.
The day continued around the islands, and in the afternoon came one of the best moments of the whole Fiji trip.
We sailed under full sails.
The wind was good, the sea was moving, and the Ra Marama leaned and moved over the waves in exactly the way I had dreamed of. The waves were not tiny, but not frightening either. Big enough for excitement, small enough for fun.
It felt fantastic.
Sailing under full sails through the South Pacific, with islands around us and wind in the rigging, I felt almost like a discoverer from 200 years ago.
With one important difference.
We did not fear being eaten that day.
A small but meaningful improvement.
We returned to our camp before nightfall and had another evening with kava, beer, BBQ, music, and conversation.
At that point, my mouth probably considered kava numbness a normal condition.
Beachcomber, Treasure Island, and Farewell to the Ra Marama
On our last day, we set the sails again and sailed south toward the main island of Viti Levu.
On the way, we stopped at Beachcomber Island again and later at Treasure Island. Both were small resort islands, with beaches, palms, clear water, and that easy island feeling that makes time behave strangely.
You think you have one hour.
Then suddenly half a day is gone.
Beachcomber felt lively and social, the kind of place where backpackers and young travellers could easily get stuck longer than planned. Treasure Island felt a little more polished, more resort-like, more relaxed.
We had some time to spend on the beach before continuing back.
It had only been a short sailing trip, but people had grown closer. That happens quickly when you share a boat, a camp, simple facilities, kava, beer, and the possibility of mild seasickness.
The farewell was not so easy.
There was one German couple I would incidentally meet again one year later on another trip. That is one of those strange travel coincidences that makes the world feel smaller than it is.
The Ra Marama trip had been one of the best experiences in Fiji.
A real sailing ship.
Bligh Water.
The Yasawas.
Kava.
Songs.
Villages.
Waves.
And the feeling that another childhood dream had quietly come true.
Back to Nadi and Another Fiji Plan
My stay in Fiji was not over yet.
Horst Kelly Sach had organized a three-day round trip around Viti Levu for me.
Viti Levu is Fiji’s largest island, and it is much more than Nadi airport and beach resorts. It has sugar cane fields, hills, rainforests, villages, the capital Suva, coastal roads, highland areas, and a strong mix of Indigenous Fijian and Indo-Fijian cultures.
Before the tour started, I returned to the New Westgate Hotel for two more days.
There, I met my driver, who worked with the German organizer. He invited me to his house outside Nadi, in an area surrounded by sugar cane fields.
The driver was Indo-Fijian. At that time, people of Indian descent made up a very large part of Fiji’s population, close to half. Their history goes back to the British colonial period, when Indian labourers were brought to Fiji to work mainly on sugar plantations. Between 1879 and 1916, tens of thousands arrived under the indenture system. Many stayed, built families, businesses, farms, temples, and communities, and became an essential part of Fiji’s identity.
So Fiji was not only Polynesian or Melanesian island romance.
It was also Indian curries, sugar cane, Hindu temples, mosques, saris, markets, and a complex colonial history.
At my driver’s home, I met his family and was invited to eat with them. That was one of those simple and generous moments you remember. I was not just a customer being driven around. I was a guest at someone’s family table.
Afterwards, he broke a sugar cane for me.
I had no idea yet how to enjoy it properly.
Sugar cane looks easy until someone gives you a piece and you realize it is not a chocolate bar. You chew it, suck out the sweetness, and then somehow have to deal with the fibres in your mouth. Very tasty, but not exactly elegant for beginners.
We also discussed the tour that would start the next day.
Around Viti Levu
Early the next morning, my driver was already waiting, and we started the round trip.
My memories from this part are more like a collection of images than a perfect route map. Hills. Green landscapes. Rainforest. Open areas that strangely reminded me of Scotland in some places. Fiji was showing another face again.
Not lagoon postcard.
Not sailing ship romance.
But land.
Roads.
Villages.
Fields.
Mountains.
The island had more variety than I had expected. Coastal stretches, fertile valleys, sugar cane, forested areas, and then those open, rolling hills where the light and landscape felt almost surprising for Fiji.
That night, I stayed at a place called Man Friday’s on the west coast. I had one of those typical Fijian bures — traditional-style huts with thatched roofs or island-style design.
A bure is exactly the kind of accommodation that tells your brain: “Yes, you are far away from Germany.”
Simple, atmospheric, and much better than sleeping under a jumbo jet flight path.
To Suva — With Surprise Passengers and Curry
The next morning, my driver arrived early to pick me up.
Our destination was Suva, Fiji’s capital, on the southeastern side of Viti Levu. The drive would take time.
I was surprised to see that he arrived with a van.
Just for the two of us?
Then he opened the door.
Surprise.
His family was sitting in the back row.
He asked me if that was okay.
Now, technically, he asked. But in reality, what choice did I have? He had already gone the long way to bring them. Sending them back would have been rude, strange, and probably impossible to explain with my still limited English and my even more limited diplomatic skills.
So I embraced the moment.
And I am glad I did.
His wife had brought a lot of Indian food to share with me. Suddenly, the trip to Suva became not just a sightseeing drive but a family road trip with curry.
That was actually fun.
There I was, somewhere in Fiji, travelling with an Indo-Fijian family, eating Indian food in a van on the way to Suva. I even remember sucking on chicken feet with curry.
This was not in any glossy travel brochure.
And that is exactly why it was good.
Real travel often begins where the brochure ends.
We stayed overnight in Suva.
Suva was very different from Nadi. It was the capital, larger, busier, more urban, with government buildings, shops, markets, colonial-era traces, and a much more serious city feeling. It did not have the resort softness of Nadi or the island romance of the Yasawas. Suva felt like Fiji’s working heart.
It was humid, active, and full of different cultures. Indigenous Fijian, Indo-Fijian, colonial history, Pacific administration, markets, buses, rain, and city noise all came together there.
After so many islands and beaches, Suva reminded me that Fiji was a real country, not just a holiday dream.
Into the Highlands and the Sevusevu Ceremony
The next day, we headed into the highlands of Viti Levu.
The plan was to visit a village where I would be welcomed with a kava ceremony. Before going there, my driver and I organized kava roots as a hospitality gift.
This was important.
In Fiji, when visiting a traditional village, you do not simply walk in and behave like the world belongs to tourists. The respectful custom is to bring kava root and present it to the village chief or headman. This is called sevusevu.
The sevusevu is a traditional welcoming ceremony. The visitor presents the kava root. The village accepts it, and by doing so, accepts the visitor. It is a gesture of respect and permission. After that, kava may be prepared and shared.
It is not just about drinking.
It is about entering someone’s community properly.
We stopped at a village in beautiful surroundings. The landscape was green, quiet, and very different from the beaches. My driver first walked to the main bure to meet the village headman — I probably thought of him as the “mayor” — and ask whether we were allowed to enter.
The “price,” or better the respectful gift, was the kava root.
After a while, my driver gave me the sign that everything was fine.
We proceeded to the main bure, where a kava ceremony was held to honour me as a guest.
At least, that is the official version.
I am quite sure they would always find a reason to hold a kava ceremony.
And honestly, why not?
If you have a tradition that brings people together, creates hospitality, numbs your mouth, and gives everyone a reason to sit, talk, and sing, then it is a very good tradition.
I sat there as the guest, probably trying to behave respectfully and not make any cultural mistakes. I accepted the kava, drank from the coconut shell cup, clapped when I was supposed to clap, and hoped I was doing everything more or less correctly.
The taste was still muddy.
The numbness returned.
By then, my mouth probably recognized kava like an old friend.
“Oh, you again.”
But the atmosphere was wonderful.
The village, the people, the ceremony, the mountains around us — it all gave me another image of Fiji. Not airport Fiji, not hotel Fiji, not sailing Fiji, but village Fiji.
And that was important.
Rainforests, a Coke Can, and a Small Cultural Shock
On the way back across Viti Levu, we passed through more rainforest.
Beautiful forest.
Green, dense, alive — the kind of landscape where you sit in the car and think: “Please, humans, do not ruin this.”
And then, suddenly, my driver rolled down his window and threw out his empty Coke can.
Just like that.
Into this beautiful landscape.
I shouted immediately:
“Stop!”
Pretty shocked, he hit the brakes and looked at me as if I had just seen a ghost.
“Why?”
I pointed back and said something like:
“You threw your can out there. In this beautiful place!”
He looked at me with complete confusion. Not guilty. Not embarrassed. Just genuinely confused. He did not understand what my problem was.
For him, it seemed to be totally normal. The can was empty, the window was open, the road was there — problem solved.
For me, it was the opposite. I could not just sit there and accept it.
I asked him to get it, but it became clear he didn’t see the point. In the end, I got out of the car myself, walked back, picked up the Coke can, and brought it with me.
Our good mood was damaged for a while.
I was frustrated.
Looking back, I try to see it in the context of the time. This was 1995, and environmental awareness was not everywhere as it is today. In many places, especially where daily life was difficult and people had other priorities, littering wasn’t always seen the same way it is in Europe. But still, sitting in that car, surrounded by beautiful Fijian rainforest, it hurt to see it.
Paradise and plastic do not belong together.
Not then.
Not now.
The North Coast and Back to Nadi
Hours later, we stopped at a hotel on the north coast, where I stayed for the night.
The next day was again a road trip, this time back toward Nadi. My driver had already brought his family back overnight, so now it was just the two of us again. After the surprise family curry express to Suva, the van felt almost empty.
On the way back, we stopped at some well-known beach areas around Denarau and the Nadi coast before finally returning to Nadi.
Denarau was already connected with tourism, resorts, boats, and island transfers, but compared with what it would become later, everything still felt less polished, less global, and more relaxed. This was still the mid-1990s. Travel had not yet been transformed by smartphones, review platforms, online booking engines, and people photographing every coconut from seventeen angles.
Back in Nadi, I had one final day in Fiji.
I spent it strolling around town, looking at shops, streets, people, markets, and the everyday life of Nadi. Nadi was not a glamorous town, but it had its own energy: Indo-Fijian shops, Fijian faces, buses, taxis, heat, dust, tropical colours, and that mixture of cultures that made Fiji so different from French Polynesia and the Cook Islands.
A security guard from the hotel offered to show me around during his time off. That was another one of those spontaneous travel moments that happened more easily in those days. You met someone, talked a little, and suddenly you had a local guide.
He also invited me to join him at a rugby match between teams from Suva and Nadi.
Rugby was, and still is, a huge part of Fijian life. Fiji loves rugby with a passion. It is not just a sport there; it is almost a national language. People play it, watch it, argue about it, celebrate it, and many young boys grow up dreaming of becoming great rugby players.
For me, however, it was something new.
And I have to be honest.
It made me pretty bored.
Maybe I did not understand the rules enough. Maybe I was already tired from the whole journey. Maybe after sailing ships, kava ceremonies, jungle roads, and low-flying jumbo jets, a rugby match had a difficult job competing for my attention.
But I went.
And that counts.
At the end of the day, the security guard invited me to his home to meet his wife and family.
And what happened there?
Of course.
Another kava ceremony.
By then, I had understood that kava in Fiji was not just something for special tourist evenings. It was everywhere. It was welcome, hospitality, conversation, respect, relaxation, and social glue in one muddy-looking bowl.
Pretty serious business.
So my last day in Fiji ended with two pillars of Fijian society:
Rugby and kava.
One made me a little bored.
The other made my mouth numb again.
Both were unforgettable in their own way.
The following day, it was time to fly to my final stop in the Pacific Ocean: Hawaii.
And there, finally, I got my stolen day back.
After losing a full calendar day when flying from Rarotonga to Fiji, I now crossed the International Date Line in the other direction. This time, flying east, the calendar moved backward.
Very strange feeling.
I left Fiji, flew for hours, and arrived in Honolulu a day earlier than I had started.
Thank you very much, International Date Line.
Apology accepted.
Honolulu again.
But that belongs to the next post — and don’t worry, it will not be such a long one again.
Fiji After Moorea
Looking back now, I realize that Moorea was the emotional centre of this South Pacific journey. It was the island of my childhood dreams. It hit me so strongly that every place afterwards had to fight a little with that memory.
That was not fair to Fiji.
Fiji was different.
Bigger.
More complex.
More mixed culturally.
Less immediately romantic for me in the beginning, especially after the runway hotel experience.
But Fiji gave me some of the most adventurous moments of the whole journey.
Sailing through Bligh Water.
Sleeping in a camp on Waya Island.
Kava ceremonies under the stars and in villages.
Fijian songs.
A village visit in the Yasawas.
A road trip through Viti Levu.
Indian food in a van.
Sugar cane fields.
Suva.
Highland villages.
And, of course, the unforgettable lesson is that the cheapest hotel near the airport may come with a free jumbo jet alarm clock.
The South Pacific was continuing to teach me that paradise is not one single thing.
Sometimes paradise is a perfect lagoon.
Sometimes it is a mountain island at sunrise.
Sometimes it is a sailing ship under full sails.
Sometimes it is muddy kava in a coconut shell.
Sometimes it is curry shared by a family on the road.
And sometimes it is simply the relief of moving to a hotel where aeroplanes no longer land on your roof.
My Fiji adventure had been full, loud, musical, salty, muddy, friendly, and unforgettable.
Next stop: Hawaii again.
The place where the South Pacific fire had started two years earlier.
But after Moorea, Rarotonga, Aitutaki, and Fiji, I would return to Hawaii with different eyes.
More about that in the next part of my South Pacific mini-series.
Stay tuned.
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