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their doors and offer you food, conversation, a place to lay your head, not because they’ re trained in hospitality, but because it’ s who they are.
We rolled into the village, greeted by a small gaggle of kids chasing a chicken across the road. As we approached a shy curiosity enveloped, some approached for a traditional greeting, a firm handshake, that ends with an almost pulling action as the grip slides apart.
The houses here were simple, corrugated iron roofs, timber walls, some traditional thatched bures, that almost unmistakable traditional Fijian dwelling that looks as if it has come from the set of some Hollywood production. Everything was immaculately clean, swept, and tended.
Fijian village life operates on its own clock. There’ s no rush. No ticking agenda. Conversations unfold slowly, gently, in rhythm with the land.
That evening, back in Nadi, I’ d had time to reflect on the encounter as I walked the streets of the‘ downtown’, an area I had been told to avoid for fear of touts trying to sell tourist wares, homemade alcohol, or possibly worse.
I sat with a local man, he said he was from a nearby village and was just visiting town. Oddly, he’ d produced a bottle of something that resembled muddy water along with a wooden bowl, known as a tanoa, although I questioned whether this one was the correct size as it seemed to be just a simple tool for drinking. He told me the fluid was yaqona, also known as kava. I was uncertain but decided to give the drink a go, after all he seemed to have been genuinely getting to know me before offering his drink.
The tanoa bowl was carved from a hardwood, and although simple in its design, it held an aura, something felt special about this simple vessel.
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