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. . .

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