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We quickly changed into bathing suits, gathered our snorkeling gear and waded out into the Yanuyanulevu lagoon. It was the temperature of bath water, and being immersed in it was like being in a gigantic spa. As I inched into the water, the stress of my "other" life melted away. One of my companions said, "This is why I came to Fiji." After a while, we exchanged snorkel gear for kayaks and started exploring a bit farther from camp. We found a shipwreck, an old fishing vessel held together by rust and decaying wooden beams. Schools of yellow tangs and black trigger fish called it home now. We returned from our outing for dinner, a traditional Fijian meal including dalo (taro root); palasami (taro leaves cooked in coconut milk); sautÚed reef fish; and stuffed chicken. For a nightcap, we all shared a bowl of kava with

As our circumnavigation of Kadavu continued, we explored beaches and villages. Life is simple here, consisting of daily, early morning treks to the fields to harvest food, and afternoon or evening fishing trips, depending on the tides. Each of the six villages we encountered, whether briefly as a rest stop, or as a place for spending the night, had distinct differences.

Muaninuku has a mangrove river bordering one side. Visibly less prosperous, the people seemed a bit more laid back than in Ravitiki. A picture-perfect thatched bure with graceful palm trees next to it at the water's edge showed that this village was less affected by modernization, finding a well-kept thatched structure is a rarity these days. Daviqele, one of Kadavu's largest villages, sat at the base of Mount Nabukulevuira, framed by jungle and flowering trees and plants. The stucco homes, in vibrant jewel tones of blues, greens and reds, were nestled into the rich greens of the foliage. Yards were manicured, and a large public green in the center of town was the site of their soccer field. The people seemed inquisitive, and were eager to share their ideas about how to start new businesses. Nabukelevu sits on a hilltop where cool breezes seem to create a sense of a mountain village. This was one of the most industrious villages we encountered. Every day the men went together to work the fields, and the village seemed to work like clockwork. Natokalau was by far the friendliest village we encountered. Probably the poorest village in terms of income, it was the richest in character. Ukulele and guitar music and singing resonated throughout the village, men wore flowers behind their ears and women laughed easily. Nearly all of the villagers came to meet us, and the children weren't shy in interacting with us. We could feel pure joy emanating from this village.

The hazard in being surrounded by so much beauty and so relaxed is that you start to reevaluate career pursuits and hectic lifestyles back home. It didn't help to compare myself and my list of neuroses to the good-hearted, joyful Fijians we met.

Kayaking seemed almost effortless, with a calm sea and hardly a hint of wind. We stopped frequently to swim, to cool ourselves in the deeper and cooler waters of blue lagoons that we passed. It was easy to snorkel and pull my kayak behind me with a bow line. The ease with which we could get off and on the sit-on-top kayaks made it possible to spend a lot of time in the water watching tiny turquoise fish maneuver between antler coral, and green-and-pink parrot fish pecking at the coral, feeding. Sea anemones were guarded by diligent clown fish, tending their eggs in its folds.

On the beaches, shell seeking became an obsession. On one beach we found a giant clam shell, about three feet across, and sun-bleached white. Cowries and cones littered the beaches at a few of our stops. The largest cone I saw was three inches long, white with a symmetrical pattern of brown splotches. The cowries came in colors from white to butterscotch, brown and gold. While some were shiney and smooth, others had little bumps all over them. Nearly every beach we stopped at was devoid of footprints in the sand when we arrived, lending a feeling that we were the only ones in the area.

On the third day, as we paddled along what appeared to be just another stretch of deserted beach, 30 or so children clad in tidy green school uniforms burst through the jungle growth and onto the beach, waving their arms at us, laughing, and shouting "Bula, bula!" (Greetings!) Informed of our trip somehow via the island's grapevine, the children had been waiting for hours to welcome the kai valagis passing by.

We paddled to the shoreline to meet them. When we pulled out our cameras, the children's excitement grew to the breaking point. Kids crowded together to pose for one picture after another. Every child wanted his or her picture taken. A pleasant woman who introduced herself as the head teacher explained that photos in these remote parts were prized possessions„the number of camera-equipped passersby being somewhat limited here. The photos that the kai valagis send back to the island are displayed in homes like priceless works of art, adorned with handmade shell leis or other ornaments.

On our way again, we waved enthusiastically to our new little friends. When we were less than a minute away, the angelic sound of children singing reached our ears. No fewer than three of my traveling companions had tears in their eyes. Our guides explained that the school children were singing the traditional Fijian good-bye song, called "Isa Lei," which essentially bids a friend a fond farewell, "'til we meet again."

Sunday is the high point of the week on Kadavu: time for church (in these parts, church is almost unanimously Methodist). In the village of Devegali, hollow wooden drums called lali, which once were beat to signify attack or danger, now resounded throughout the quiet village to call worshipers to service. We joined villagers in church„a large, concrete structure with windows on all four sides. In one direction you could the jungle and flowering tropical bushes; windows on the other side looked out to a serene bay. Village men had donned their finest: white shirts, plain dark ties, dark suit jackets and matching sulus (wrap-around skirts); the women wore colorful calf-length "missionary" dresses with brilliantly-colored sulus underneath.

The singing was a cappella, with layers of song by men and women joining in perfect harmony. Everyone in the church sang with great enthusiasm. The full, rich sound was so stirring that I sprouted goose bumps.

Because of its remoteness, Kadavu has escaped the onslaught of the 20th century. Most areas are accessible only by boat. There are only three tiny resorts on the whole island; the absence of mass tourism means the islanders are truly enthused and grateful for the few visitors they get. Here on Kadavu, village life has remained far more intact than on some of the larger Fijian islands. Its ancient chain of respect for their chief and tribal traditions have been unbroken on Kadavu.

Wherever we went, the villagers were as curious about our way of life as we were about theirs. They were especially curious about our children, since most Fijians have large families and act as loving caregivers to any and all children in the village, in keeping with their communal ways. A Fijian woman told me, "We are a poor people, because we have no money. But we have all that we need. If we want fish, we go into the ocean and catch fish. If we want fruit, we pick it from the trees. We are happy."

We spent our final night in the village of Natokalau. Villagers prepared us a lovo (feast) featuring foods cooked on hot rocks in an earthen oven. Whole walu fish, chicken, curried prawns, raw fish salad and root crops made for a sumptuous feast. We found only one of the local delicacies hard to get down: the sea slug, with its slimy texture, was nearly impossible to eat. As I enjoyed by meal, I noticed that none of the villagers were eating. I realized then that the people of Natokalau were getting pleasure merely from seeing their visitors enjoy themselves. We were strangers to them, but that night they were like doting grandparents to us. In the course of seven days I had gone from slight apprehension, and a bit of tongue-in-cheek "cannibal" humor, to profound respect for the Fijians.

After dinner, we enjoyed a meke (singing and dancing celebration). We clapped in time to the music and tried our hand at dancing their traditional dance. One of our paddlers made a lasting impression when his sulu came untied and hit the dirt. Taking a cue on how to laugh from the locals, we rolled on the ground and howled, though the local women pretended to shield their eyes.

While our kayak trip to Kadavu had started with the anticipation of paddling over Fiji's reefs to see firsthand the rainbow-colored fish and corals, our orientation to the trip changed that first day in Ravitaki village when we first met the locals. The scenery and colorful fish and reefs were incredible. But what really touched our spirits were the Fijian people themselves, and the chance to experience a bit of a culture that is so totally different from our own.

The Fijian people welcomed us into their lives with open arms, warm smiles, food and gifts. After I returned home, I realized that I may never act on my fantasy of living on a remote South Pacific island, but I still find peace of mind knowing that such a place as Kadavu exists, and that there is a place in the world where my fantasy could be made real.

Isa Lei, Fiji, we will meet again. . .
 

Melissa McCoy lives in Hawaii where she owns and operates a travel agency that specializes in Fiji  -

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