Stop Fiji-ting
Trip Start
Oct 15, 2007
1
78
97
Trip End
Aug 24, 2008
Viti Levu,
Fiji
Sunday, March 30, 2008
That appears to be Fijian for "Hello tourist!" We may just not have noticed, but the locals never seemed to say it to each other. Still, Bula, if you like.
We were only to be in Fiji for a week, but our evening arrival dictated that we ought really to spend the first night in Nadi (pronounced Nandi, somehow), before moving along to the Coral Coast, home of beaches, palm trees and not a right lot else. We'd been told that Nadi wasn't really worth hanging around in, and that did seem to be a fairly accurate assessment. The hostel we had booked was just outside the main concrete town though, out past the Police Station.
The proximity to the Police Station may not seem worthy of mention, but then you didn't see it. It's a small, grubby, moss covered, flat tyred 1970s caravan with a sign on it saying Police. Well, 'sign' is maybe a bit generous. 'Plank' would be a little nearer the mark. Very cute.
We showered, dined, drank, and were introduced to the traditional Fijian drink that is Kava. A carpet was laid out by the pool, and the guests all sat down as a large, loud, grinning Fijian woman named Tequila ("Hi! My name Tequila! Tequila the Gorilla! HAHAHAHA! Ha!") set about explaining the intricacies of the Kava ceremony. After a hurried retreating under cover when the heavens opened, she continued...
Kava, it seems, is what the Fijians drank before the white man introduced them to the myriad joys of booze. It doesn't contain alcohol, but apparently has a variety of mildly psychoactive, libido enhancing ingredients. Hmmm. It's muddy water. Pulped bits of coconut tree are dried and then ground, and a cloth bag of it is mashed around in a bowl of water. Halves of coconut shell are used to drink it. It tastes like...well, imagine what a load of pulped wood steeped in water should taste like.
No weird dreams, no wildly enhanced libido, no floating around the ceiling communing with island spirits, just a need to visit the toilet a few times. After a few coconuts full of water though, that's only to be expected, regardless of what may have been steeped in it. Still, everyone was friendly, there was a bar where we could get ourselves what we actually wanted to drink, and the room was pretty comfortable.
So...the next day we got ourselves on a bus to Mango Bay, where we had booked ourselves in for five nights. The bus dropped us at the head of their track, which was about a mile from the resort itself. The reception bods were a bit stunned that we had walked - we should apparently have called them to pick us up. Called with what, from where? We have legs, it's only a mile, don't worry, calm down dear...
We don't tend to visit 'resorts', as a rule, but after living in a van for two months, then doing city things, a few days doing nothing at a beachside resort sounded quite pleasant. The place was a little pricier than our usual hostel budget ran to (it called itself a 'Flashpacker' resort, whatever that's supposed to mean. Flasher than a backpacker?), so we got ourselves a dorm, rather than a room. There were only two more people in it though, and they left after the first night, so we pretty much had a private room anyway.
It seemed quite nice, if a little under populated, giving it more of a resort-out-of-season feel than a quiet relaxed place by the sea. We had a bite to eat, then an 'egg-tossing' contest on the beach was announced. Two rows of people, throwing eggs back and forth between each other, gradually moving further and further apart. Pairs were disqualified as eggs were dropped...or broken. They didn't tell us that the eggs were raw. No, this was announced by the fact that as we moved further and further apart, the eggs needed to be thrown harder and harder. What happens when you throw eggs harder and harder, boys and girls? Yeah, cheers.
We borrowed some snorkel stuff, after a bit of argy bargy. There was free use of snorkel gear, but the guys there said "No, it's low tide, you won't enjoy it. Maybe tomorrow." Running a snorkel trip for which people have to pay are you? Thought so. No, there's a sign there, it says we can use snorkel stuff, we'll be using snorkel stuff thanks. It was quite fun, whatever they thought.
That night, after dinner, a 'Crab Race' was held in the 'Nightclub' area. They had a pint glass of hermit crabs, numbered with Tipp-Ex, and ascribed 'nationalities' to them to encourage people to bid for a crab 'from their country'. The owner of the winning crab scooped the pot (which totalled over £50), which they should then "Spend on lots of alcohol! Yeah, woo-hoo, party, yee-hah, etc, etc." This was explained by a small, loud American girl whose smile, though almost permanent, never quite reached her eyes. We had found ourselves in the graveyard of the 18-30 holiday.
Bugger.
There is a reason that we don't usually go to resorts. Note to self: don't go to resorts. They're rubbish.
There are those who would accuse us of snobbery, but really, there were protozoa swimming past who were feeling superior.
So, we found ourselves a more secluded section of beach, sat about, got bored, got drinks from the bar and returned to the little balcony outside our dorm to play cards.
The following day we caught a bus over to Suva, the capital, to explore, sort out some e-mail, and crucially, to get a few bits of food and drink. Although we had a bar and restaurant on hand at Mango Bay, that was all we had for miles and miles, and we didn't want to have to spend all our money there. Chips, dips, tinned fish, crackers and spreads...and a bottle of VAT 69, which although distilled in Scotland, was bottled in Fiji, so counts as local booze, so sells at local prices. Newly self sufficient and clad in newly purchased counterfeit board shorts, we got a few spicy little snacky bits from the stalls at the bus station and headed back.
Incidentally, one of our e-mails was from Kate, the snotty baggage from the Qantas VIP club in Christchurch. She had a record of Kirsty's frequent flyer number, so checked her contact details and dropped us a line. Never have either of us seen such a small person eat such a huge helping of humble pie. An unreserved apology, an admission of her bewilderment at how appalling her behaviour had been, even an offer of taking us out for a meal if we were ever back in Christchurch. Hadn't really been expecting that.
Our new food notwithstanding, we ate at the restaurant that evening, but then retreated to our newly private dorm, where we hosed ourselves down with DEET, lit mosquito coils, and sat out on the balcony with music, a deck of cards and a bottle of cheap scotch. Nice.
The following day passed without much incident. The sun was out, we lounged on the beach, swimming occasionally, writing occasionally before getting up to see what all the commotion was about. There was a 'do stuff with coconuts' workshop beginning. This, as was the way with everything at Mango Bay, was announced by a bloke beating the crap out of a hollow log with two sticks and screaming.
We pottered over and had a look. Fair enough, we now know how to de-husk a coconut with a pointy stick, split it open, get at the water and chop out the flesh. They then started demonstrating how to make jewellery - chop the shell into rings with a hacksaw and sand down the edges to make a bracelet, chop out a triangle with a hacksaw, sand down the edges and drill a hole in it to make a pendant. That was of less interest. Grating the flesh into a large bowl with a load of shrimps and spring onion then squeezing lime juice over it to cook the shrimps was more our sort of thing, but we already knew how to do that.
Back to the beach.
As the evening approached, we wandered down to the restaurant, ate disappointing steaks and stuck around for the quiz. We was robbed.
No sour grapes, no being sore losers - we was robbed, I tells you.
We came equal first, so the decision was made by the assembled crowd judging who had the better team name. Sitting on the periphery, we had called ourselves 'No Fiji-ting at the Back'. The other team called themselves 'Brain Dead'. They won, in a cheer-off, by a long way. We had made the mistake of being clever in a room full of dullards. Still, there were two of us and four of them, making us essentially twice as good as they were. The moral victory, we're sure you will agree, was ours. The winning team (who agreed with us about our name being better, incidentally) offered us some of their 'prize'. A pitcher of 'Jungle Juice', a thick, cloudy looking concoction which looked suspiciously like the dregs of the kitchen bin. We declined.
Having won the quiz but avoided having to consume the prize, we repaired to the more sophisticated surroundings of the balcony at Casa Thrall for tunes, whisky and cards.
We awoke the following day to rain. The rain continued, largely unabated, until we left the country. It may have continued after that, but we neglected to check. We passed the day reading, writing and cursing our iPod for refusing to connect to the computer. Another evening of cards and booze ensued.
The resort offered diving lessons, run by Kari (not Carrie, oh no), the loud, diminutive American from the crab racing extravaganza. The pool session for beginners was free, a device to encourage people to pay for a whole course, obviously, but nevertheless, it was a freebie of which Kirsty could take advantage. Having done a 'Discover Scuba Diving' dive off Easter Island, she wasn't a total novice, but the skills training - which is pretty much all you can realistically do in a swimming pool - was useful. She did get to see a little bit of marine life however: there were two crabs which had fallen into the pool. Jacob, having qualified as a diver years ago, stayed in bed.
After hunting around for someone with a key to the snorkel shed, we borrowed some bits and went for a play. The rain on our backs eventually got a little sharp, so we retreated, showered and wrote for a while. We joined in with the unusual game of 'Killer Pool' after our evening meal. Each player has three lives, and takes it in turns to take a shot. Failing to pot anything loses you a life, as does sinking the cue-ball. Potting the black, at any point in the game, gets you a life back. When there's only one ball left, the balls are re-racked and play continues. Last man standing is the winner. There was no prize, but it was quite good fun, although as Fiji were playing in the Rugby Sevens on the telly, people did rather lose interest after a while.
That night, we had company in the dorm, so had to be a little quieter than usual. Still, we'd had quite a good run in our unofficial private room. The rain had dropped off somewhat, so we sat on the balcony again, this time using our rucksack covers to insulate us from the now rather soggy timber.
We had promised ourselves that on our last morning, we'd pay for an indulgent breakfast. Breakfast was free, if you had toast and cereal, but there was also a menu of goodies. The 'Bloody Big English Breakfast' had caught our eye: a big ol' fryup with a Bloody Mary. We ordered, the food arrived, and eventually, the waitress asked if we wanted Bloody Maries. Well, yes, we have ordered something which the menu says is served with a Bloody Mary, so...why are you even asking?
The bar was closed. The booze was all locked away - they didn't even have the tomato juice. We wanted our drinks, and were not impressed with their contention that there was only one key, in the pocket of a member of staff who was off site. He'd be back by ten - the time at which we were catching a bus back to Nadi. Well, no, frankly, we're not having that. We have ordered something on the menu, and we wouldn't have done so if we had been told beforehand that some of it was not available. There should be no situation, in a hotel, in which a lock cannot be unlocked because no-one is on duty with a key. We had had this answer the other day when trying to get at the snorkels too, but standing our ground had produced a key. This time, standing our ground produced shrugs.
The final blow came when we went to reception to check out and pay, and they tried to charge us the full amount for our breakfast. The menu claimed that the breakfast came with a 'free' Bloody Mary, so not having had the drink didn't entitle us to a discount. Bugger off. After some wrangling (and the production of a key, mysteriously, which led to a rather late offer of the drinks which we had only wanted as an accompaniment), they let us off a couple of dollars. Oh, how very big of you.
All in all, the snooty staff, obnoxious American bird, pricey mediocre food, juvenile entertainment, crappy weather and constant battles for advertised freebies had not left us with the greatest impression of our chilled out, relaxing Fijian beach holiday. Still, we had booked the place through an online agent, who request reviews, with which we had a great time.
We got a lift up to the road, which coincided with the arrival of a local bus, upon which a movie was being shown about a little boy who befriends the Loch Ness Monster, which was a bit unexpected. After that, they played country music. Real dismal, "My wife done run off with my brother and my dog in my pickup truck and now my shotgun don't work" country music.
Feeling inexplicably suicidal, we got a cab to Beach Escape Villa, the hostel from the first night, which, despite its location and significantly lower price tag, is a much, much better place to stay. The people are lovely, their smiles are huge and welcoming, they asked us how we'd been, what we'd been up to, and really seemed to mean it. The food's better as well.
The rain was about as heavy as any rain has ever been anywhere, so we stayed inside, as much as is possible in a complex of bungalows with different facilities in each one. Outside beckoned though: we had to go and check e-mail - we needed to be in touch with our friend Charlotte in Sydney, where we were to be heading the following day - and we had to eat.
We also had to venture outside a few times to have words with reception about our shower. The hot water wasn't working, so they said they'd put the immersion on. A while later, still cold, we chased them. They'd forgotten. A while longer, there was some hot water, but not in the shower. It was running out of the light fitting in the toilet. We weren't sure if it was the hot water we had been expecting, or if its running through the wiring had warmed it up a tad. Either way, we weren't too enthusiastic about the prospect of showering any more. We mentioned it to reception, but it provoked little more than a raised eyebrow.
Scuzziness got the better of us, and we had tepid showers. Eventually, as Jacob was shaving, a bloke turned up to have a look. He put the light on so he could see the leak (!), then reached up and unscrewed the light bulb. He poked around a bit, then, with a hand still wet from the water which was running out of the fitting, he screwed the bulb back into the still live socket, shrugged, and left.
Our evening had a bizarre soundtrack. Beach Escape were playing a terrible album which was probably called something like "Glad of the Work: Liza Minnelli Sings a Load of Old Crap that Barbra Streisand Turned Down". A day, it seems, for musical incongruity.
Our flight the next day was delayed. In fact, it was so delayed that when we arrived early enough to bag Jacob some legroom, it was no longer even listed as a 9am flight, it had been shifted to 11. We were given a voucher for some food, with which Jacob got a croissant and Kirsty got cat food in a chunk of wet brioche. We can only assume it was some sort of local delicacy. They called it a 'tuna sandwich'.
Throughout the course of the day, our flight was delayed and delayed. We squirted ourselves with duty-free perfume testers. We exhausted the possibilities of pretending to the guys in the jewellery stores that we were really in the market for $10,000 worth of Omega chronometer. We sloped around for a while, then had a thought...
The VIP lounge had free WiFi. WiFi doesn't know its supposed to stop at the door of the lounge, and there were some benches outside. So, free internet, and consequently, a useful way to pass the time. We wrote, we used the web to phone Charlotte in Sydney and warn her about our delays, we got bored, we eventually heard an announcement for our flight, which would now be leaving at 1257. Glad we'd got up at 6.
