When in Fiji ...
Tom Hanks was a fool in that Castaway film. A desperate year surviving on coconut and chatting to a volleyball, while a short swim across sapphire water was the 4.5 star Tokoriki Island Resort. From the recliner lounges around the horizon pool you can see the hill Hanks climbs to scout for passing ships. Coconut must ruin your eyesight. Yohoo, Tom! Over here!
A trip to Hank's 'deserted' island is just one of many activities on offer at Tokoriki - the northernmost island in Fiji's Mamanuca archipelago, a scattering of coral crowns off Nadi's western shore. Scuba diving, singing lessons, island-hopping, a visit to a traditional village, even an international crab race and we had come here to relax?
Each day's activities were broadcast the evening prior, when the Tokoriki Herald was delivered to the 34 deluxe bures lining a palm-crested slice of sand. Free-standing bures, of course - Tokoriki is one of Fiji's most popular resorts for romance. Boasting 'the latest breaking news from around the island', the one-page flyer taught a Fijian word for the day, including Sega na lega - no worries, and Dua tale na bia mada - one more beer please. The haunt of Aussie and British travellers, Tokoriki teaches the most crucial words first.
Wanaka, thank you, was the word I used most, gratitude for the resort's casual, cheerful staff, their smiles the true sunshine of the South Pacific. Conde Nast Traveller described Fijians as "the most friendly people in the world", an accolade justified the minute you set foot on Tokoriki and they celebrate you with song - Bula Bula, Rum Rum, Bula Bula!
"How long have you been singing that," I later asked a barmaid, Roba, expecting her to roll her eyes now that we'd become friends.
"Three times a day for fourteen years," she replied, no cynicism in her smile. "Would you like me to sing it to you again now?"
"Why not?
Roba's colleague, Neville, mixed cocktails that reflected the colours of the sunset, the coral, the fish ...
The resort - built in the late '80s by Gordon Giles Morris, who died shortly before its completion - is situated on the western side of Tokoriki, so Sunset Happy Hour could live up to its name.
Neville's name, however, had me intrigued; surely there was foreign blood there? Apparently - and he told me this after several cocktails, so don't quote me - he wishes to join the British Army. The catering corps perhaps? His pina coladas would be great for morale, though detrimental to target practice.
Then there was Solomon: musician, waiter, concierge, a laconic jack-of-all-trades who stopped at nothing to please, as though you'd come to visit him rather than his homeland. On our arrival, after a complimentary cocktail, the gentle giant devised a plan whereby my wife and I would receive a honeymoon hamper one evening and a cake for our anniversary the next. When I told Solomon that this was impossible, he regarded me with knowing eyes and whispered: "It is on Fiji time, my friend."
Most talkative was Penioni, greying duty-manager, afro like alfalfa but sprightly as a child, a novelty on this adults only island; no kids under twelve allowed, but plenty conceived. Our paths crossed when I complained about exposed springs in our mattress (avoid bure 21) and was told that the mattress must be good as it came from Australia. My gripe forgotten, (Neville's cocktails again), we got chatting about his life and the trickle of technology that made it to Fiji.
"Do most Fijians have mobile phones?" I asked Penioni.
"Well I don't. But I bought my kids a television last year. Now all we need is electricity in our house and we can watch it."
And I was complaining about imperfections in my mattress.
Keen to learn more about these delightfully unaffected people, when the Tokoriki Herald announced a visit to Yanuya, the island from where the resort gets the bulk of its staff, mine was the first name on the list of participants. A kilometre of blue separated luxury from poverty - pigs in cramped cages and putrid rubbish piled up; perhaps Hanks had spied Yanuya and figured he was better off where he was. Fishing boats were flotsam. A stray dog scratched for fleas. A woman fished with a knife in neck-deep water, stone still, until she pounced. No deluxe bures here, only rudimentary wooden structures and corrugated iron sheds. I stuck my head in one to see a bedroom wall which stopped shy of the roof, adorned with a photo of the Fijian rugby team and a faded portrait of Lady Di.
A ceremony had been organised in the furniture-free community hall, where our group would meet the chief of the island and sample the deceptively titled 'Fijian cocktail of choice'. "Whatever you do," advised Vini, tour guide and Yanuya local, "don't refuse the Kava bowl when it's passed to you," a request I respected, unfortunately, and spent the rest of the holiday sitting down; hardly the right position for someone on their honeymoon and anniversary.
Villagers had set up a market just for us, and we felt compelled to buy tropical trinkets - bracelets and wooden turtles - which on the mainland were three times the price. After passing a house with a grave outside its front door (Fijian real estate agents must have a hell of a time), we were led across a thirsty rugby pitch to the local school, where the principal - a middle-aged man in a purple skirt and tie - had been expecting us.
It was play-time, and dozens of giggling barefoot children ran around the rugby pitch - dodging, weaving, shouting, tackling; had they had a ball they might have played a match. We sat quietly at their desks in a tumbledown classroom, its air-conditioning a hole in the wall, and listened to their teacher give a lesson on Fiji.
'Good habits' read a hand-written sign above the blackboard. 'Learn to save your pocket money. Save water and electricity. Take care of your things ' It didn't take a genius to spot the recurring theme. They had little and should savour it. Families survived off the money earned on Tokoriki, to where we escaped in a smart speedboat after filling the principal's donation bowl.
Racing across the water on our way to a gourmet lunch, a lazy afternoon snorkel, and then perhaps another of Neville's cocktails to drown the Kava aftertaste, I made a promise to send books to the school - and perhaps a rugby ball. We had it all. Yet they were the happiest people in the world. I hadn't expected to learn such a valuable lesson in such a humble classroom.
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Please send books and primary school learning materials of any description to:
Simeli Namedre
Namamanuca Primary School
PO Box 4526
Lautoka
FIJI
Category Travel