March 2012

The Royal Davui resort takes up most of the 10-acre island.

Davui is a small island. When I say small, I mean really small. Like the size of some estates in Beverly Hills. But it doesn’t feel that small when you’re on it. In fact, my first morning here, I got lost. While walking through the lush tropical grounds, I took a wrong turn and ended up on the deck of one of the other vales where two women in their twenties were having breakfast on their deck while sunbathing. Naked. I apologized, babbling on and on (I never know when to shut up when I’m in the presence of naked women), but I’m not sure they understood me since they were both German. In any case, they didn’t seem upset by my presence; they asked if I’d like to join them for coffee. You know how those Germans are. So hospitable.

Davui wasn’t always called Davui. The Fijians called it Ugaga (which would be pronounced Ung-nga-nga). You can see why Grahame preferred calling it Davui. Who would want to go on vacation to the Royal Ung-nga-nga? Who could even pronounce it?

It takes awhile to get the hang of the Fijian language. For instance, one day I asked Siteri where she was from and she said Mbeng-gah.

“Ah,” I said. “Is that far?”

No, she said, pointing across the lagoon to the island of Beqa. “Just over there.”

“Behind Beqa?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “Just there.”

“In front of Beqa?”

“Beqa?” she said. “What is Beqa?”

We went round and round like this until it finally dawned on me that we were talking about the same place. Only I pronounced it Beh-qua and the Fijians pronounced it MBENG-gah.

Beqa, or MBENG-gah if you like, is known for their firewalkers. Jack and Diane, who I wrote about yesterday, are quite keen on going over to Beqa to see the firewalkers. Or at least Jack is. He keeps asking Christopher if it would be possible for him to do it.

“You want to walk on the hot coals?” Christopher has asked him.

“I’d like to try.”

The thing is, Christopher has explained to him, you don’t try to walk on the glowing coals. You either do or you don’t.

Christopher has told me that he has tried to subtly discourage Jack’s interest in this but failed. “So we’re taking him over there Saturday night. And he’s going to walk on fire. Or so he says.”

I wonder how many cocktails one would need before trying that?

We’ll find out.

Some of the amazing staff at the Royal Davui. Photo by David Lansing.

I don’t want to get in trouble here, but I have to tell you about this newlywed couple staying here. Let’s say his name is Jack and her name is Diane. Jack and Diane, who, I would guess, are around 25, 26, are from Australia and are here on their honeymoon. Let’s say that Diane’s daddy owns a car dealership or a chain of auto supply stores or something like that (it doesn’t matter) and Jack is a mechanic who works for her dad. Both Jack and Diane are very gregarious. In fact, when I first came over to Davui on the resort’s taxi boat, Jack reached in to a plastic bag and asked me if I’d like to share a beer with him. This is before he said, “Hello, my name is Jack and this is my wife Diane,” or before I’d even introduced myself.

I took the beer. When Marguarite, who was sitting up on the front of the boat, saw that I’d gotten a beer from Jack, she asked him if she could have one as well. Jack gave her one. The thing is, that was his last beer. And Jack likes his beer. And his vodka. And…well, just about any cocktail. (A little birdy at the resort told me that the first night Jack and Diane were here, their bar bill was over $250 at dinner. And they weren’t drinking any wine.)

Jack seems to have some sort of hormonal imbalance which, I think, probably explains his non-stop talking and his hyper-mania. Evidently he needs to inject himself with some sort of hormone or something every day and damn if he didn’t forget to bring the stuff with him on his honeymoon. Which is a real bitch because there aren’t any pharmacies on Davui (and even if he went back over to the mainland—an hour’s journey, roundtrip—he’d still need a doctor’s prescription, wouldn’t he?).

I like Jack. And I feel a little sorry for Diane. As I said, Jack likes to drink and he’s hyper-active. Which means he’ll get up at the crack of dawn, have an OJ and vodka (or two) with his breakfast, and then head off, by himself, for a day of deep-sea fishing or the like. Leaving Diane (who seems to sleep until one or two in the afternoon) on her own. But you know what? When Jack finally does get back to the resort and if Diane is awake, they seem to really enjoy each other’s company. She’ll sit on Jacky’s lap and they’ll giggle as he wedges his hand in between her knees and they both get shit-face. It’s kind of sweet. In a very strange way.

Jack adores the staff here at the Royal Davui (I do, too). He doesn’t just ask them what their names are. He sits down with them, offers to buy them a beer, and asks them tons of questions (of course, most Fijians, and certainly all the Fijians at the Royal Davui, don’t drink, but I’m not sure Jack knows that; he’s just trying to be friendly).

The Fijians don’t drink but they do like their kava. Late at night, after all the guests have wandered off to their villas (which they call vales on this island; vah-le being the Fijian word for home), the men get together and have a cup or two of kava. And Jack, I hear, joins them every night. Staying up until two or three in the morning. And then there he is, first thing in the morning, washing his scrambled eggs down with vodka and orange juice while his bride sleeps until noon.

Oh yeah, life goes on. Long after the thrill of livin’ is gone. Hold on to sixteen as long as you can. Changes come around real soon. Make us women and men.