At 4 a.m., I got up to pack my bags over a sleeping six-year-old. At 5 a.m., I pulled my bags onto the billiard table and waited for the call to the carrier. At 6:30 a.m., the mosquitoes claimed victory over my right leg as we crawled up into the carrier, which would take all the volunteers and a scattering of locals down the mountains into the city of Sinatoka. We waved goodbye to some sleepy and sad faces. The village was in our wake.

When we hit asphalt, I pulled my Blackberry out so fast, I nearly elbowed the girl next to me. One week without internet made Lindsay an anxious girl. How sad. But once we boarded the bus to Lautoka in the city, I peeled myself away from Facebook notifications and Twitter updates to hang with Abel in the back, listening to my iPod and his favorite song on repeat (”My Heart Will Go On” by Celine Dion…seriously). The speed bumps sent us flying into the air and crashing down with a back crack and big laughter. The open windows threw my hair around in a frenzy. And the views never let up from being awe-inspiring.

After a week of sharing kava bowls and receiving a rough nutritional spread, I acquired my first WTI travel bug…and not the good kind. I didn’t feel much like hitting the bar hard with the other travelers; instead Abel invited me to hang with him at his brother’s house in the city (since Abel came back with us to work for his future school fees for two months).

Brother Elia’s house shook from the little pounding feet of two children, Kenny and Faresa, both male, cheeky, and energy-packed. While dinner cooked in the kitchen, I received playful slaps from the two-year-old, Kenny, that got me right in the kisser. He had a face smeared with his earlier dinner and a laugh that meant mischief and ulterior motives. He was, in a word…hilarious.

Leaving the Village Behind for Now

Abel and I ate together a meal of noodle soup, village taro, and pig skin, and because of my subtle uncertainty with devouring slippery, jiggly pig, Abel sensed I was disgusted and began to beat himself up. He spoke only one or two words during dinner and nearly cried for being a bad host. I felt awful that I couldn’t scoop the pig skin into my mouth feverishly, which would have been the only thing that would ease his worries, but I reassured him over and over that I loved the meal…I was just not as hungry as he was.

Those from the villages in Fiji have such an innate desire to care for you, and when Abel thought I wasn’t receiving a meal up to my normal standards of apparently royal feasts, he grew upset with himself. Had he only known how happy I was to still be soaking up village culture and company, he wouldn’t have felt so sad.

The long meal drew to an end, and Abel went outside with his brother to pound some fresh kava for a small savusavu, or welcoming ceremony into the new household. Meanwhile, I created games that broke through the firm language barrier by making sounds with my mouth, creating rhythms of slaps and punches in the air to be repeated, mainly just doing anything that would entertain two kids who would quickly turn to violence if bored.

Abel and Elia welcomed me into their Lautoka home, and after a few bowls, I lounged by the mother of the household to gab about the boys. Her abilities to predict their next moves and behaviors was stunning.

“Next they are going to play a slow love song and start blinking for longer periods of time. That’s the difference between men and women kava drinkers: we throw on the party tunes and gab while the men want to wallow in sweet songs and fall asleep. We’re more fun.”

As the rest of the Madventures group was bouncing around Ed’s Bar, I was glad to know I was still connected with the village I just left behind. It made sense to be there. It was yet another moment I cherished in the moment and beyond.

The soles of my feet are basking in equatorial sunshine, which could either mean I’m in for one evil sunburn or that I know how to do it up right here in Fiji: feet up, book open, smile on my face.

When faced with the possibility of a very long and uncomfortable flight across the Pacific, knowing the ending destination makes the airplane food and screaming baby moments worth it. Right now, I hear far away music, vegetables being chopped and grass rustling from strolling dogs. The breeze is a whisper. I love Fiji.

Fijian Village

Chris and I only strolled into Nadi airport at 5:30 a.m. this morning and by lunchtime already found a great appreciation for the anti-time management lifestyle. There’s no sense at all that things need to be planned or scheduled today. All we know is that at some point, we’ll need to purchase a “sulu” (a traditional Fijian sarong for the village ceremonies).

As the day progressed, Chris found himself playing in many a soccer match, while I grew increasingly disoriented by jet lag. By the time dinner came around, I had completely forgotten where the volunteer house from that morning was. Luckily a little aimless wandering got me there, where I proceeded to fall asleep mouth open, limbs sprawling, every chance I could get.

After indulging in the house’s favorite meal by Mary, the in-house cook, of chicken curry and roti, it became evident I might die if convinced to go out. Lucky am I that there’s two of us and I left Chris to experience all the wonders and joys of Fijian nightlife, while I walked home in the black of night, weary of the coconut trees above my head. This moment made me feel ballsy again, other-worldly, like I was back again to my life of challenges and excitement.