The natives in Fiji were overly friendly so of course the cynic in me refused to believe it was real. It was effing real people. I heard more “bula” in our six days on that island than “hello” from my neighbors in the last five years. One day, we strayed a little too far from our resort. The air was thick with humidity and my hamstrings were starting to ache. Just like a knight in shining armor, a 76′ minivan (I have no idea what make or model it was, but I’m sure it was assembled in 1976) slowed its engine and offered us a ride back. My hamstrings greedily accepted even though the American in me was shooting off “kidnap” and “rape” alarm bells.
Turns out our knight, also known as Brother Wamee, coordinates outings for tourists who don’t want to spend outrageous resort fees on day trips. Despite my hesitation — he made a cannibalism joke — we booked a trip to the waterfall village and spent the next day hiking, horseback riding, swimming in the fresh spring water and mingling with the village people and their roosters.
Back tomorrow with the last of the photos!