Fiji: Waya Lailai (13-15 April 2010)

13 April 2010

Another day of not much at all in paradise. Up again at 7am for breakfast (these unsociable mealtimes are my only issue so far in Fiji) then had an hour of sunbathing before the boat arrived to transfer us to Waya Lailai, our next island. Turns out it's quite a complex procedure going from one island to another. First you have to board a little water taxi which is always wet despite the blazing sunshine. Then you head out to sea and bob around waiting for the big boat to pull up alongside you, always threatening to a) splash you mercilessly or b) mow you down. Either way, it's a very novel approach to sea travel. At Waya Lailai, we again crammed ourselves and our luggage - which is tossed around as though there is no ocean below waiting to swallow it up - into another unfeasibly small boat and cruised ashore to a welcome song from the staff.

It's a bigger island than South Sea. Admittedly, that's not difficult; there are bigger houses than South Sea. But it has a great set-up - a long sandy beach and teraces cut into the green, forested hills where little thatched beach huts serve as accommodation. Our dorm reminds me for some reason of a Civil War hospital though. It's a long, dark and narrow room, humid and hot, with rows of beds draped in mosquito netting. Not that it matters, we won't be spending much time there anyway.

We whiled away the morning on the beach then ate a lunch of fish goujons, stir-fry and rice. This was accompanied by the obligatory slices of pineapple and watermelon which have accompanied every meal so far in Fiji. After lunch, we took a weaving class with the ladies from the village, who taught us to weave bracelets from dried leaves, then finished the day with a nap in the fading sunshine.

14 April 2010

Woke to glorious sunshine, perfect for our reef shark snorkelling trip. It was a bit disconcerting on the way out. The reef is in the middle of the sea, we were in a tiny fishing boat and a man sat at the helm sharpening his spear all the way. The suddenly he threw himself off the boat into the middle of the ocean - we looked at our other companion in surprise but he didn't seem to notice (or care) that his friend was gone. We later picked him and he swung back into the boat followed by a string of fresh and colourful fish.

The snorkelling was incredible. The reef sharks aren't dangerous and only about 1.5m in length but they are an exact miniature of that deadly form we have conditioned ourselves to fear. At one point, there were four circling slowly below us, occasionally darting to the surface to snatch the morsels of fish our guide was holding out (and there was me thinking you're not supposed to provoke them)! Though they didn't touch us, they came within about a foot and seemed completely nonplussed by our presence.

After that it was back to our usual busy schedule of lazing on the beach, occassionally dipping into the water which is as hot as a bath, and eating copious amounts of food. The evening brought excitement though in the form of Waya Lailai's Fijian Night. They started with a kava ceremony then dished up the most delicious meal we have had so far, a traditional Fijian meal cooked in a underground oven called a lovo. The food was excellent, not disimilar in style to the maori hangi: pureed spinach with coconut milk, fried aubergine, succulent chicken and pork, root vegetables and terro root (a dense, earthy potato). We finished with steamed chocolate pudding and strawberry sauce. I love not having to cook for myself at the moment.

A concert followed dinner, with all the locals in Fijian dress performing traditional songs and dances for us. It was so nice to see such community spirit (Waya Lailai is the only resort in the Yasawa's that is run completely by the locals); obviously everyone form the village pitches in to keep the resort going. Once again, it is refreshing to see that cultural identity is still being passed down the generations. Imagine gathering together everyone from a village in England and asking them to perform a traditional English dance. What on earth would we do? The macarena?! It's not even an English song! I suppose this cultural preservation is easier in a country where the way of life is not advancing so rapidly. Stories, songs and dances are passed down, not forgotten in the scramble to gain control of the TV remote.

Anyway, it was a great evening...until they asked us to join in, that is. Suddenly a man perspiring more than I ever believed it possible to perspire made a beeline for us and grabbed hold of me and Megan and squashing each of us securely under one arm. I could actually feel the heat emanating from his armpit (a situation no-one should ever have to be in). Let's just say it was not my favourite five minutes of dancing. Once it was over, it took us two antiseptic wipes, a soap label, a layer of aftersun and a spritz of insect repellent to obliterate the smell. And we laughed throughout the whole process. We couldn't help it; there is something very amusing about smelling like an old man's armpit it turns out!