Vatulele - where you can have your own flagpole
As I tried to squat with dignity on the mud floor of his hut, the Chief of the Mataqali started clapping and chanting. I guessed something extraordinary was about to happen. Was the head man of Vatulele Island going to share a cannibal snack with me? Or would my holiday end with marriage to one of his beautiful daughters? The chief smiled to his nodding cronies and a toothless old chap appeared with a wooden cauldron. Ah, it's the cannibal feast then...
I'd been a little worried that Fijian folk were used to scoffing each other.
Just 100 years ago, while we were sensibly inventing telephones and railways, Fijians were happily dining on each other. Fiji was even known as 'The Cannibal Isles'. Skulls were used as drinking bowls, human bones were made into earrings and all manner of body parts were hung in trees as decorations... now there's an interesting idea for the front room.
And all this wasn't for an ancient spiritual belief about consuming a rival's soul: it was simply paying someone you didn't like the ultimate insult. Eating someone was as rude as you could be. It was a sort of road-rage burger. Someone who'd accidentally stepped on your toe would be dragged to your hut in a noisy procession of drums for a fate not worse than death - but death itself.
But then the missionaries arrived and spoiled all the fun. OK, some early ones got gobbled, but the survivors quickly changed things. And now I defy anyone to travel to anywhere in the world to find a more friendly and hospitable people. The Fijians were well and truly transformed into a kindly, gentle lot. So much so that I thought that if I ever was going to be eaten, I couldn't think of a nicer bunch to do it.
When I arrived at Nandi international airport on the main island, Viti Levu, I'd been ready to don body armour to repel natives coming at me wielding knifes, forks and napkins. But things have changed. After all, you can't be frightened in a country where policemen wear skirts.
No wonder the Fijians are so good natured and happy nowadays - they live in a clichéd Polynesian paradise. It really is the idyllic land of swaying coconut palms, gleaming white sandy beaches and warm blue lagoons.
The climate is tropical, the sea is full of fat, tasty fish and the land is brimming with sugar cane, coconuts and fruit trees. The main islands are civilised while retaining many Fijian traditions - fire-walking, tribal dancing and making cloth from bark.
One old chap living in a ramshackled hut told me he pitied me for having to live in a western city to earn money, only to spend it all travelling thousands of miles to see his island. "I already have what I want here," he smiled, waving outside to the lagoon and hot sunrays.
The islands may be small, but there's more than 300 of them scattered across the ocean. Many have no landing strips and can only be reached by seaplane or boat. Fijian island holidays range from budget backpacker stuff at less than a tenner a night to world-class luxury resorts charging thousands of pounds. Guess which type I wanted to try.
When I bought a £175 return flight to the international jet-setters resort on the outlying Vatulele island, I didn't expect such a gastrically-challenging flight, but the coral island soon appeared below and we swooped down to land in a small clearing in the scrubby jungle.
I stepped down from the plane to be greeted by an enormous Fijian lady with a small bouquet jammed behind her ear. She towered over me and wiggled her waist with her arms outstretched as if she was drying her bottom on a non-existent beach towel. Other similarly strange women gathered around me.
Gulp! I'd left my body armour back on the main island - I was today's lunch for sure.
But then they started singing... and it was a sweet bird-like harmony. I couldn't understand a word, but their huge Colgate smiles seemed to indicate they were pleased to see me. All arrivals are greeted at the airstrip by local villagers who gather around to sing traditional songs.
"Welcome to Vatulele Island," said a bare-footed, unshaven bloke stepping from a bus painted with flowers that made it look like a hippy's VW camper. "At £500 a night," I muttered, "I thought I'd be met by the owner." "I am the owner," he replied. "Jump aboard, I'll take you to your room."
The place isn't like a normal luxury holiday resort. The beautiful, single-storey buildings are hidden from each other in the jungle along a mile-long white beach. Each guest lives in their own private 'bure', a traditional Fijian house with high thatched roof and terracotta tiled floors. Inside each is a range of toiletries wrapped in a leaf and a huge bed under a mosquito net.
You don't get a TV, radio or telephone in the bure, but if you want anything - champagne is included in the room rate - you just hoist a small flag on your private flagpole and a man will hurry along the beach to take your order. French Champagne? Certainly Sir...
Unlike other stylish resorts, the staff don't call you Sir or Madam. They call you by your first name. The laid-back manager I'd met at the airstrip, takes a Polaroid of you when you arrive and pins it to a notice board in the entrance hall so the staff learn your name immediately.
Most meals are eaten communally on a huge table in an open sided bure. Dining is informal - shoes are optional. It's a haven for ex-hippies who've become millionaires. Richard Branson, Sting and Bill Gates should try it. In fact, they probably have.
By the way, when you wander along Vatulele's wooden pathways to the gourmet dining room after dark, don't forget your private hurricane lamp. Little signs in the grass read, 'Beware of falling coconuts'. Don't study the undergrowth too closely though - it seethes with life. I couldn't tell the crabs and spiders apart.
The island itself belongs to the Mataqali, who rent it to the resort. If you want to visit their village on the other side of the island, you have to ask the Chief. I confess I was a bit daunted with this. After all, a hundred years ago I would have been welcomed as the entrée. But thankfully, nowadays guests are greeted with a Kava-drinking ceremony instead.
Kava is the dried root of a pepper shrub which can be mixed with water to make a ceremonial drink. The custom is that visitors bring a small sack of Kava as a gift. It sounded harmless enough. We all sat in a circle on the floor and I handed over my sack of Kava. The Chief smiled broadly. I was offered a half coconut shell full of the drink first. I'd rehearsed the routine. I had to clap once, take the shell, say 'bula', and then down the Kava in one.
I grabbed the shell only to find that Kava looks and smells disgusting - like filthy, muddy water. "Well," I thought. "It's better than being forced to eat an oven-roasted bit of your own body," and I glugged the lot. It tasted exactly as it looked.
But after a couple of minutes, a few more claps and down-in-ones, my lips started to go numb, then my tongue. Then, my brain. I started to feel delightfully drowsy. It turns out that Kava is a potent narcotic.
The handclaps, 'bulas' and Kavas started to get hopelessly out of sequence. The villagers were giggling too. The Chief just stared blankly ahead, wavering slightly. Someone called for another cauldron... we'd still got a sackful to drink yet.
Added 2008/11/21 @ 17:30:12
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