January 2007

Some days pass at Wakaya, more swimming in the very alive reef, sneering at the kayakers and discovering an area of rot surrounding the deck’s upper structure. Michela and me get very busy with chisel and hammer, eradicating the likely result of years and months of kiwi rainfall. Once we reorganize and feel like we got to see everything there is in this anchorage (and being fed-up to be surrounded by such filthy rich weirdos) we move on, destination Makongai, another small island a few miles north, ex leprosy colony and now who knows.
It’s another pleasant sail through the reef and on to the dark shape not so far away. We pass Makongai’s NW entrance and sail in, toward what looks like a very pristine, sparsely inhabited, nicely sheltered little bay. The anchor goes in the crystal water and as soon as possible we get ready to go ashore, hopeful to find a better reception than the other islands. We have about 15 bags of kava but we bring just four for starters, we don’t want to give our stash away to potentially unfriendly/indifferent people.
We reach the jetty undisturbed, soon we are approached and as custom we request to see the chief and perform our Sevusevu. We take a seat in the communal home, where talk and ceremony is usually performed, the village is drowsy in the midday heat, we re told it’s lunchtime and so we’ll have to wait a little for the chief.
Soon enough a stocky man, grey hair and dignified pace arrives carrying two papayas. We are expecting another long ceremony full of warnings (don’t wear this, don’t go there), instead before we even introduce ourselves we are handed the papayas, quick introductions, and Tomasi takes us to his home. Definitely a different approach that what we had so far. Everyone is informal and very friendly, we have a nice chat with Tomasi, he lets us take a shower in the back of his home (shower our only intended request), he reassures us that we can stay as long as we please, go around without restrictions, and that we’ll all have an evening together the day after. The island is now a facility for breeding and repopulation of giant clams and turtles, an Australian project.
We’ll end up spending some wonderful days in the company of marvellous people, playing soccer with the kids, jumping off the jetty, playing diesel drums with sticks and collecting a few giant clam-shells. Tomasi takes me in the jungle for a one-on-one session of learning on how to get food in the bush. Making sticks to get down popos and cocoanuts, how to spot cut and suck on a sugarcane stalk, how to make a basket out of palm fronds to carry it all away. On my own later I go on collecting some wild chillies and lemon tree leafs for tea, while discovering abandoned machinery and a few secluded leper’s huts still standing, overlooking the sea…considering that at the height of the colony five thousand people lived there with steady supplies, cottages on the beach, more fruit in the bush and fish in the sea than they could ever use and even an open air movie theatre, their life couldn’t have been all that bad.
On Friday we’re all invited to dinner at the settlement: tons of crabs, breadfruit, cassava, yams. It’s us, Tomasi’s family, some workers, and a visiting pastor from Suva who came by from the actual village on the opposite side of the island.
After the gargantuan dinner we all settle in the porch, smoking quietly thin cigarettes of locally grown tobacco wrapped in slivers of newspaper while someone strums a guitar. We expect to have a few bowls of Yaqona (Kava), but we’re informed that they wiped out the four bags we brought the night before, and there’s none at all in the entire village.
Naturally, being the occasion so perfect (the dinner, friends, guitars, and a sliver of moon turning the bay silver), I sprint out to get the remaining eleven bags, figuring that we won’t get an occasion better than this to put them to good use.
The pastor asks to visit the yacht, and I oblige, happy to do just about anything to please such amazing hosts. We get the bags and the atmosphere cheers up. More guitars appear, a ukulele, a mandolin, spoons as drums. Off go the bilos (bowls) at a steady pace, in between sweet melodies of traditional Fijian favourites. The girls join in and the melodies get sweeter and sweeter, while me and Tomasi talk about life, the sea and fishing in Fiji and in other distant lands. We are now adorned by fronds and our faces get smeared with talcum among giggling we can’t understand. (Later I’ll find out is a tradition whenever “staying up late with the girls”). It takes a while, but eventually we manage to finish the songbook and the eleven bags of Kava. Time for sweet dreams while the moon sets behind the rocks.

December 2006

The day is bright, the sky an intense blue streaked with long clouds. The original plan was to go forward to Nairai, but it being quite upwind I decide on trying Mbatiki: the island is a challenge as the reef entrance looks very tricky, a sure sign that neither tourists nor sailboats often go there. The sailing is pleasant: good five knots with a dry deck. We coast along Mbatiki, the inner lagoon is perfect turquoise, sloping green hills with the cutest sheltered village on the western side. Arrived at the infamous passage we douse the sail and start looking for the entrance. Even before it there are several intermediate reefs and coral heads, pretty narrow manoeuvring space as it is. I circle closer and closer, each of us studying the colours ahead trying to spot the passage, but after about half an hour we give up, after all the charts are pretty old and in the intervening years corals might have grown to make the passage even narrower.
We have the full day in front of us, so we keep on sailing north to Wakaya, where the passages are multiple and seem to pose no problem at all. Again we coast the western lee side, again we look for a passage into a picture perfect lagoon-with-white-sand-beach but again no luck, we must go to the ‘official’ anchorage on the northern side. Getting to the entrance we go by some stunning steep rocky coastline, surprisingly, above we spot several luxurious looking villas, we are intrigued.
Upon reaching the northern side there is a beach developed as what looks like a resort. We manage the reef pass indicated by two beaten “beacons” (overstatement!) and finally drop anchor in seven meters, a pristine looking beach on the right, more luxury villas above.
The only other boat is a charter diving boat, and after we get settled the dinghy approaches with some Fijians aboard. They inform us this is a private island owned by the owner of Fiji Water, it is forbidden to land and by the demeanour of the kayakers around (blatantly ignoring us and looking the other way), we figure we’re not quite welcome in their private paradise. Never mind, new year’s is tomorrow and we’re not going to move until ‘07. We snorkel and swim, happy for the new place, and wondering what the fuss is all about on this island, though knowing that Tom Cruise and Mel Gibson have a villa here makes it sound a true rich weirdo recreational spot.
The sunset is amazing, worthy of some tropically inspired postcard, we have some dinner and then start imagining some lavish party in some awesome villa while having a few glasses of wine. As night falls we have worked ourselves up into a real big party fantasy, and the curiosity to go see if anything is going on is just too strong.
We then decide to put on our best clothes, grab the bottle of Bounty Rum (58% over proof) and row the dinghy ashore. On the beach a big sign warns that entrance to the island is strictly forbidden, but we muse that being new year’s, the inhabitants might be intoxicated and forgiving of our little intrusion.
We walk up the unpaved road and make our way to some villa’s gates, everywhere is silence, bummer.
Some cars pass us but don’t stop, (looks like they’re not so strict after all), while the warm rum straight up makes us all more and more boisterous. Nearly giving up on the party crashing idea and turning around to go back at the beach I start hitchhiking, just for the fun of it.
An SUV stops, and I anticipate a bit of chit chat and some more information on the island itself. The lone passenger on the unlicensed car is a beefy Australian, and immediately he fires a few dry orders. You’re from the yacht? Go back immediately!
His tone is anything but friendly, I explain what we were up to, just checking for the chance of having a bit of fun on new year’s, but the bully is unmoved and repeats his “orders” with an even angrier tone. “Ok, no need to get agitated!”, I say, “We’re going back at once”. The Doberman is mechanically barking now, so I repeat that we’re going back and what if we don’t, is he going to shoot us? He replies that he can shoot us if he pleases “And much more”. Asshole.
I just ignore him and keep on walking downhill, no point in even talking to the dog, while I keep sipping the Rum to keep myself from getting in his car and see if I can teach him some manners.
We spend the rest of the night getting drunk on the beach (no beach can be completely off-limits), skinny dipping, while a guard keeps flashing a light at us. I try to offer him some Rum as to say that we have no evil intention, but the Fijian must have been chastised already for not spotting us earlier, so he refuses.
Having drunk almost half of the bottle by myself the day after sees us all (and me in particular) with a devastating hangover, as January 1st should be.