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the pace of a passing horse. It’ s a location where traditional kava ceremonies take place, not for the tourists, but as a natural part of life. Village elders, the chief, and the people sit crossed legged, slurping back the earthy drink that tastes like cold liquorice mud, it’ s here that the real magic of Fiji takes place, and far away from the beachside resorts. A generosity exists here in these villages, an openness, which reminded me why travel matters, not to tick off landmarks, but to connect, however briefly, with the heartbeat of a place.
Kava is mildly narcotic. I wished that some would be offered to ease the pain of an unfit body and a fall too many.
The terrain got worse … and by worse, I mean better. Imagine a track climbing like a coiled python up the spine of a mountain, then dropping just as sharply into a misty ravine where the bush was so thick I’ m convinced it had ambitions to consume us entirely. My bike, once shiny and proud, now resembled a moving compost heap. I, meanwhile, had sweated through three layers of skin and begun negotiating with my thighs like they were hostile hostages. Something was going on in my underwear and I was too afraid to see what.
At one point, we had to forge a path through what was ostensibly forest. No trail, just instinct and machete-cleared vines. Jason barrelled ahead like a man born of jungle. I followed like a man born of soft suburban riding parks; I now realised that gravel roads and outback tracks simply cannot be considered off road.
One afternoon, after blowing a line through a sharp incline and finding myself lying under the bike like a failed yoga student, I was rescued by Nate, one of our group, who deftly rode my bike to the top of the hill that must be considered Fiji’ s highest
TRAVERSE 33