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Rationally, I knew cannibals no longer waged brutal, blood-thirsty warfare in these parts. Still, I experienced a brief flicker of doubt as we were escorted into the presence of a rather sinister-looking chief in a remote village called Ravitaki on one of the less-traveled of the Fiji archipelago's 350 inhabited islands. Sure, the natives at the Sheraton on the main island were friendly, but who really knew what these folks had planned for dinner? My overactive imagination aside, it wasn't the first time I had faced danger that first official day of our seven-day expedition to a South Pacific locale. The 16-seater prop plane that flew us from Fiji's main island of Viti Levu to the island of Kadavu appeared to be in good shape, but the pot-holed dirt road they called a runway did not. As we banked over the brilliant, kaleidoscopic, coral-rich waters that are Fiji's trademark, our pilot turned and flashed us a wicked grin as he aimed for the spit of land in front of the plane and prepared to land.  After a hard brake and a few neck-jarring bounces we were down, and I joined the seven other relieved passengers in spontaneous applause, hoping to bring feeling back into my whitened knuckles. In our excitement, we almost missed the tiny, one-room, clapboard-style Vunisea airport.

Melissa McCoy has lived in Hawaii on Maui and Kauai since 1974. A victim of circumstance, falling madly in love with an avid scuba diver, she reluctantly learned to dive so she could travel with Michael.  Her goal was the colorful reefs of Fiji - she had seen pictures. From 1991-1996 she and Michael went to Fiji on several occasions to scuba dive and kayak.  In 1993, Melissa opened a travel agency and by 1996, had built an internet travel business call "Fiji Reservations & Travel". She now joins Michael as co-guide (really hostess with the mostess) on several trips a year. Melissa enjoys writing, traveling, bird watching, scuba diving and eating Michael's gourmet cooking! Her passion is for the people on the expeditions. The guests and the villagers. The people who join Kayak Kadavu on this magnificent journey are her source of inspiration to write. Melissa is the President of Fiji Escapes Travel. Weddings, Vacation & Luxury Home Rentals, 5 Star Tropical Luxury Resorts, Family Vacations, Dive Vacations, Kayak Camping Expeditions, Awesome Surf Holidays. Turtle Island, Namale Plantation, Wakaya Club**, Yasawa Island Lodge, Vatulele**, Kayak Kadavu, Moody's Namena (owner's top choice in it's category-find out why), value priced airfare & all travel arrangements to Hawaii, Fiji, New Zealand, Tonga, Australia, Cook Islands. In Hawaii 1-800-588-3454. 808-871-5986.http://www.fiji-islands.com

I had joined several couples on a first-time expedition by a new kayak touring company. We loaded our kayaks and gear into the back of a truck and, as we careened along a run-down farm track, we quickly learned that the runway on which we'd just landed constituted the only paved road of any substance on Kadavu. Over an hour later, we finally stopped when the road deteriorated at the village of Ravitaki. Several muscular local men met us there. Having heard our truck arriving above their village, they came to see what was going on, and helped us unload, tossing heavy supply bags over their shoulders as if they contained nothing more than Styrofoam. They showed us the way down a winding path of overgrown, primeval-looking vegetation to the village of Ravitaki, in a clearing.
 

We might just as well have been on a long-overdue National Geographic expedition. As we entered Ravitaki, the excitement of the inhabitants was palpable: children scurried behind bushes to play peek-a-boo with us; wide-eyed adults surveyed us surreptitiously from the motley collection of huts made of bamboo, wood, corrugated tin or thatch. We were the first group ever to kayak these waters. As we were led through the village, a few Fijians cautiously joined our procession, obviously curious about this crazy group of kai valagis (roughly, "people from the outside") who planned to boat around their island in funny little canoes and, like fools, camp out on the beaches. After being requested to take off our shoes, we were beckoned inside a simple wood-frame house that looked remarkably like the airport terminal. There was little furniture to speak of. A huge, finely-woven mat covered the floor, and a wizened, elderly man of noble bearing sat at the far end of the mat: Chief Save, called Ratu Save. He had earlier given his stamp of approval for our group's kayaking trip, but a face-to-face ceremony was required to make it official. Deep, dark creases lined his baked brown forehead and became more pronounced when he frowned. Remembering our cultural briefing from earlier that day, we all sat down quickly in the cross-legged lotus position, as it is tabu for any commoner to have his head higher than the chief's or to allow the balls of his feet to point toward him.

The village elders entered after us and sat at each side of the chief and our group leader, Michael. A lengthy ceremony ensued during which Michael introduced the six of us and our mission. The elders responded in long, drawn-out Fijian soliloquies. Ratu Save sat silently, still frowning. Called a sevusevu, this ritual of getting to know outsiders is ancient, harkening back to tribal war days when a visitor from another village or island was as likely to get a swift blow from a massive, thorny club as he was an amicable chat.

Michael produced our gift to the chief, which by tradition consisted of a bundle of knobby pepper-plant roots, called yaqona, which are later sun-dried, ground into powder and used to produce a slightly narcotic ceremonial drink called kava. If the chief accepts this gift, he essentially gives his blessing to the presenter of the gift. During cannibal times, before westerners arrived in Fiji in the late 1800s, this was the village chief's promise of protection„the visitor would not be killed while in his domain. Finally, after a few silent moments, Ratu Save made a short ceremonial speech in Fijian, grabbed the yaqona, then broke out into the widest smile I had ever seen.

This encounter taught me that the rather stern look of the locals masks some of the friendliest, most charming people on earth. Yet it was also exceptionally clear that the Fijians did not take lightly their traditions or their age-old tribal rituals. Thanks to Wesleyan missionaries and British administrators, cannibalism died out in the last century, but the indigenous people still cling proudly to their heritage. The fact that they still seriously evaluate outsiders who wish to make use of their land and waters (especially in this world of rapidly disintegrating native cultures and ecological sell-outs) earned my respect.

The atmosphere inside the house relaxed considerably as a huge wooden bowl appeared for mixing kava with water. A drinking ritual between our leader and the village leader sealed the welcome pact. Then each of us was allowed to participate in the drinking of the kava. The coconut bowls full of murky liquid tasted a bit like dirt with the kick of Novocain, but it is a grave insult not to drink down the entire bowl in one gulp, and each of us did.

Outside, after the ceremony was completed and our "safety" was assured, we made our way to the beach, where our kayaks were waiting. The villagers were much bolder now, coming up to us, introducing themselves, asking us questions, even handing us gifts of a hand-woven fan and shells. A big-hipped, huge-breasted woman who identified herself as the chief's sister shook each of our hands so vigorously that one man in our group almost toppled to the ground, and the woman giggled endlessly as we introduced ourselves. Such heart-felt hospitality and generosity among a people whose tongue-twisting names we had a hard time pronouncing, let alone recalling, momentarily stunned me.

Someone in our group unearthed a cigar and handed it to an old village man who was following us to the shore. As if on cue, the wrinkled man pulled a wooden match from behind his ear, lit the cigar, then puffed and grinned from ear to ear. After three puffs, he passed the stogie to some of his fellow villagers, eager to share his largesse. To this day, I have visions of the tattered, minuscule cigar stump being passed around the village.

By noon the tide was at its lowest point, about seven feet. We bid farewell to the villagers and carried our kayaks to the water, slogging our way through soft dark sand. As we walked, I was hypnotized by the thunderous sound and sight of the relentless waves crashing against the edge of the massive barrier reef a half-mile off shore. With each tidal surge, white, frothy billows of sea spray flew into the air for as far as the eye could see.

Launching on our sit-on-top kayaks, the crystal clear water was stunning, tinted like a patchwork quilt in every conceivable shade of blue, from turquoise to royal blue. Each time my paddle blade dipped into the shimmering water, my kayak eased forward as if floating on a cloud. We were surrounded by the salty smells of the ocean and the balmy sea breezes. Schools of flying fish took flight in front of us, skimming the surface of the water as they raced away from us.

Paddling to the edge of the lagoon's reef, I looked over the side of the kayak. I had the uncanny feeling that I was scuba diving. Acres of staghorn coral reached for the surface like millions of deer antlers; countless tiny, florescent blue and green fish darted among the antlers. Scores of purple-blue starfish lay like a handful of jewels strewn across the sandy bottom. A large school of flying fish whisked past. We lazily passed a few tiny, deserted islands ringed with powdery white sand beaches and coconut-laden palms. I would given anything to set up house on one of them. Moments later, as I was meandering slowly, watching the underwater scenery, I felt a sudden jolt of impact and felt a rush of adrenalin. My kayak had been rammed at full speed by something that was very large. Terrified, I imagined a shark circling back around, opening its giant jaws. In a matter of seconds, I saw my attacker: a five-foot wahoo (a kind of mackerel) in pursuit of small-fry. I started breathing again.

The lagoon was as flat as glass, and for three hours we took our time paddling the four miles to a brilliant little island with a long stretch of sand Yanuyanulevu, our destination for the day. Our escort boat was waiting for us there. We landed our kayaks and immediately went exploring. We soon found a deserted thatched bure (hut) not too far away, with a garden surrounding it. Apparently, this little bungalow was used by the locals when they came this way to fish. My fantasy revived: I could live here forever, just like the Fijians, living on fish, papaya, mango, coconut and wild citrus.

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