Vatulele - how it made my lips go numb
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This is part three of Simon Heptinstall's holiday adventure in Fiji.
When you arrive at Vatulele, the laid-back manager who meets you at the airstrip takes a Polaroid of you when you arrive then 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 tribe, 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.
Thankfully, nowadays guests are more politely received. First I went to the village church and watched a long, bizarre mysterious ceremony punctuated by delightful singing. Then I was whisked off to the men's hut to be properly greeted with a Kava-drinking ceremony.
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. I think chomping on your own roast forearm is probably preferable.
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.
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