farmland, with rows of cassava, taro, and corn stitched across the hillsides like patchwork, a mosaic of colours and textures, equalled by unique smells that hinted of something fresh and not manufactured by fashion houses in far off lands.
A farmer riding his horse on the outskirts of a village that probably didn’ t exist on a map, certainly not the one I was carrying, waved, and motioned for a conversation.“ Where you going?” he asked, squinting under his faded baseball cap.
“ Just riding,” one of us replied.“ Looking for the real Fiji.”
He smiled, revealing a mouth full of stained teeth, I hadn’ t realised that Fijian chew betel nut.“ You already in it.”
We shared a few words, his English was patchy, and my Fijian nonexistent, but he pointed us toward a nearby village where he said we could rest.
“ Tell them Semi sent you,” he said, with his huge infectious grin.
That’ s the kind of thing that happens out here. There’ s no tourist infrastructure, no signs, no visitor centres, no scheduled entertainment. Just people. People who open