not the ritz

We were heading to Fiji, to accommodation whose tag line is “We’re not the Ritz. But we are famous…”.
Dot dot dot? What’s that? It’s the written equivalent of “yada yada yada”.
We’re not the Ritz, but we are famous for bugs the size of small monkeys?
We’re not the Ritz, but we are famous for regular sightings of rare exotic sea creatures?
We’re not the Ritz, but we are famous for the cannibal massacre of ’99?
Our curiosity had been well and truly built.

We flew with a new discount airline, and were somewhat relieved when the flight attendant announced that the cabin was “pressurised for our comfort”. Here I am thinking the cabin was pressurised for survival, but hey, I was officially on holidays so comfort was just fine by me. Then during the safety demonstration they announced that the life jackets came equipped with a whistle and torch to “attract hot sailors”, and the fun began.

At the end of a long bumpy dirt road, we were welcomed to a cluster of little huts, nestled on the coast in a remote area well away from the towns and cities. A view of the islands across the still sea in one direction, across the reef to surf breaks in another direction, and back up to the rippled hilly landscape behind us.
We were pleasantly surprised to discover it was indeed not the Ritz, but I’m assuming what they are famous for was the fantastic atmosphere, genuinely friendly staff, and authentic Fijian experience.

A land who’s people would give the Irish a run for their money in a “friendliest people in the world” competition. A land where everyone smiles and waves at everyone else. A land where people shake your hand and introduce themselves the moment they see you. A land where most people walk along the sides of the roads to get from place to place, and spend most of their time outside. A land where traditional village life is still completely normal, and is respected. A land that gave us the most fun holiday yet!

Fiji is a place that still has hand painted billboards by the side of the road, where happiness seems simple. Its carefree nature abandons the need for seatbelts or punctuality. The city streets and main highway are sealed, but all side streets and roads are a variety of coloured dirt, from rich ochre yellows through to reds so deep they’re almost purple. The people are a combination of proud native Melanesian Fijians, and newer Indian Fijians, so there’s a lovely mix of bright Hindi temples and grass roofed Christian chapels dotted across the country side. There are sugar plantations everywhere, and the landscape is lush, lumpy and hilly, like a soft un-made bed.

Like the dry dust on the roads, Fiji covered me in a fine layer of colour and joy. It got under my skin, and I cried as we flew high above the endless Pacific, away from Fiji, towards home.

My God we share a beautiful globe!