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amongst the thick foliage were slick with recent rain, and more than once I discovered that the best way to navigate a muddy corner was simply to fall over and hope gravity had a plan.
There are tracks. And then there are“ Fijian tracks”, which often involve crossing creek beds strewn with melon-sized boulders, ducking under branches thick with vines, or charging up eroded inclines that would make a mountain goat secondguess its choices.
“ Follow the animal tracks,” Jase instructed as he dove into the dense underbrush disappearing as if by some mystical force.
“ What bloody tracks?”, I asked no one in particular. A rider behind me grunting as he fell yet again.
About two hours in, after my third( okay, fifth) fall, I found myself half-submerged in a puddle, boots squelching and ego bruised.
“ Mate, if you’ re not falling, you’ re not riding hard enough,” Jason grinned, the sort that a clown that lives in the drains of a Stephen King novel does.
I wasn’ t sure if that was encouragement or an admission that he’ d brought along a crash-prone amateur for entertainment value. I wasn’ t the only one … it seemed that each and everyone one of us had an off at some point, and each one was met with laughter and an undying spirit to help each other through.
Of course, the bruises came and what made every single one worth it were the people.
At every village we passed through, places like Bukuya, Navala, and Koroboya, we were met with warm smiles, children running barefoot to the edge of the track yelling“ Bula!” as if we were returning war heroes … or perhaps clowns on noisy unfamiliar machines.
In Navala, a traditional village where all the houses are still thatched bures and life moves at
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