The kava was earthy and bitter, to be honest, I would general describe something like this as“ tasing like arse”. Its muddy colour belying the calm that seeped into my body with every sip, at first my mouth felt numb, then my head, then a strange calmness fell across my body.
The man asked where I came from, what I was doing, whether I had a wife, how many brothers and sisters I had. There was no judgment in the questions, just warmth. When I told them I was travelling Fiji by motorcycle, for just a few days, to see what most visitors don’ t, my new friend laughed as he shook his head.
“ You are riding around just to talk to old men like me?”, he continued laughing.
“ Yes,” I nodded.“ That’ s sort of the point.”
He raised the bowl in a toast.“ Vinaka vakalevu, brother.”
The next morning, we were back on the ride, venturing deeper into a land that time seemed to have forgotten. The trail grew rougher the deeper we rode inland, but with it came breathtaking views, jagged ridges in the distance, mist clinging to the tops like gauze. In the valleys, streams gurgled over stones, and the occasional pig darted across the path in a squealing frenzy.
We passed through more places with names that barely registered on the map— Narata, Nadevo, Nanoko, Navala- each with its own rhythm and feel. I’ d laughed in wonder that every town in Fiji had a name starting with the letter‘ N’.
Some villages were quiet and reserved, others lively with kids playing rugby and old women cracking jokes in the shade. But all of them had something in common: pride. A fierce pride in their land, their customs, and their way of life. Along one stretch of ridge near Monasavu, we stopped to admire the view, a rolling expanse of green hills stretching all the way to the coast,