Vatulele - head for a small clearing in the jungle
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Part two of Simon Heptinstall's holiday adventure in Fiji.
One old chap living in a ramshackle hut alongside the sea 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 Fijian 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', (call it a "buray") 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...
Read the amazing finale to Simon Heptinstall's holiday adventure in Fiji here
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