A Chance to Escape in the South Pacific

Wasn’t I surprised. Until now, I had never been interviewed regarding my suitability as a guest. As long as my American Express card rang up “approved” and I stayed off Interpol’s wanted list, what else mattered in securing accommodations? This world is not of my design, you understand, but I am accustomed to playing by its simple, mercenary rules.

The South Pacific archipelago of Fiji was my destination. I was going on assignment, though I intended to stay longer, play a little, and see what I could of the place. Fijians were said to be arrestingly friendly, and the scuba diving and snorkeling reportedly were first-rate. Fiji also held an irresistible promise: a place where you really could put distance between yourself and the onrush of what we choose, optimistically, to call civilization.

All this proved true and then some. During 12 unplugged days in the Tropics, I yielded to the sweet, coconut-and-breadfruit rhythms of two distinctly different resorts and looked in on others. I traveled by plane, boat, four-wheel drive and swim-fin, but never in a hurry. * In retrospect, the unexpected screening interview became a metaphor for understanding tourism in Fiji, a nation of 300-plus islands--more if you count the small ones.

The purpose of my trip was an assignment to profile one of the South Pacific’s most notable part-time residents, Jean-Michel Cousteau, heir to the underwater legend of his father, Jacques. Naturally, I would be staying at the resort that bears Jean-Michel’s name.

But I also was looking for a personal getaway, with the emphasis on away. So I called Lynette Wilson in Santa Barbara, the U.S. agent for several Fiji resorts. I awaited a sales pitch. It came in the form of interrogation: I wouldn’t happen to be a bore who travels alone, would I? I was leaving the children home, correct? I had at least five days so I could get into the swing of relaxing, didn’t I? I wasn’t the antsy sort who might need TV, slot machines, floor shows, modem-jacks, a singles scene, shopping arcade, asphalt jogging track or round-the-clock taxi service along with my remote getaway, was I? And, she asked, I wouldn’t mind a little shallow reef-walking to reach the boat that would take me to the resort if, by chance, I arrived during low tide?

Based on my answers, Wilson judged me suitable for a place I had never heard of: the Nukubati Island Resort. She said it would meet my needs and I would meet Nukubati’s--on all points except the matter of traveling companions. Circumstances left me journeying alone this time. Nukubati (New-come-BAH-tee) is for lovers more than loners.

Considering the direct connection from Los Angeles, Fiji is one of the most convenient full-fledged South Pacific escapes possible. The flight to Nadi airport on Fiji’s main island, Viti Levu, is 101/2 hours--about twice as long as the trip to Hawaii. In island atmosphere, the difference is many times greater. Old-time wanderers of the Pacific say Fiji is what Hawaii used to be--fewer crowds, a slower clock.

Fiji, unlike so many small nations, never had to forfeit its land or its political culture to invaders. Missionaries successfully Christianized the islands, yes, but under British colonial rule, the authority of Fiji’s village and regional chiefs was maintained. Farsighted administrators locked away 83% of the islands in perpetual trust ownership for Fijians. As a result, their way of life has not been threatened. No wonder they are so relaxed about visitors, and why they seem so sincere when they ring out the greeting “Bula!” at every encounter.

Not to say that the place is free of frictions. East Indians, brought to the islands as indentured laborers during British rule, still work much of the land but cannot own it. The British left in 1970, but sparks between Indian immigrants and Fijians continue to shape island politics and even gave rise to a short-term military coup in 1987. I found that the subject of racial politics was sure to throw a damper over conversation, or at least force everyone to speak at a whisper.

First Nukubati: Getaways require some getting to, so going to Nadi is only the first step. After landing, I rested overnight at a hotel and returned to the airport the next day for a one-hour flight north to Fiji’s second-largest island, Vanua Levu. My destination was Labasa, though I also could have chosen to fly to Savusavu on the same island.

I was met by a driver and a four-wheel-drive Mitsubishi Pajero. With fresh-scrubbed trade winds in our faces and a moody tropical sky overhead, we ventured into a countryside of flowers, waterfalls and mountain vistas. As often occurs in these latitudes, the sun feels roasting hot while the sea breeze offers a spritz of cool. A ridgeline separated the rain forest and coconut plantations of the island’s southeast from the semi-arid sugar cane fields of the northwest. The driver aimed toward the northern edge of the island, and the ride took about an hour and a half.

We turned off the paved road onto dirt and jounced through quiet villages where laundry flapped in the wind and children played rugby with plastic pop bottles under breadfruit trees. Finally, we entered a vast thicket of coastal mangroves, where the sharp smell of tidewater seemed charged with extra oxygen. There was no road sign, but my driver veered off down a rutted path. He deposited me at the foot of a slender, 100-foot-long wooden dock.

I looked across a turquoise bay to a promising vista of green, sand-encircled islands before me. The nearest is pint-sized, big-hearted Nukubati. The tide was out. I waded between coral outcroppings to a skiff while the boatman handled my bags. We crossed the bay in five minutes.

I was now three islands removed. Relief bordered on euphoria. The world no longer felt shrunken, but once again was a place big enough to offer escape. I was not out of touch, necessarily. But I was well beyond reach.

Proprietors Rose and Denis Meek walked onto the white-sand beach to meet me with a freshly scalped green coconut, its thin milk chilled. A half-dozen resort workers wandered down. Everyone was smiling. Suddenly they were singing and I was necklaced with flowers. Inside, I cringed. I had seen welcomes like this and they’d struck me as contrived.

This one was not. The 35-acre island is owned by a local family, the Steiners, descendants of a German homesteader and his Fijian bride. The resort is owned by Jenny and Peter Bourke; some of the Steiners work there. The welcome is home-style.

The Meeks showed me around: Three free-standing guest cottages and two bungalow-style duplexes are lined up 20 feet from the beach just behind a row of spindly palms. In all, there are seven rooms, for 14 guests maximum. No children are allowed except during a few select weeks each year. The architecture is plantation, not the thatch-hut “bures” for which Fiji is best known. Nukubati’s accommodations resemble the louver-windowed beach cabanas of 1950s Southern California. Amenities include lavish open showers, overstuffed beds and private porches overlooking a small lawn and a very large ocean.

The social center of the resort is an imposing thatch-roof, open-air pavilion. This serves as the dining room, bar and library, which is expansive and well-ordered thanks to Rose Meek’s background as a librarian.

Remote is not just an illusion but a fact--and one so emphatic as to create a spell. Other resorts are scattered around the southern waters of Vanua Levu, but Nukubati is alone in the north. Casual tourists seldom venture anywhere near and day-trippers are not allowed. Yachters seldom risk the coral maze of these waters. We were in the company of ourselves alone.

In the coming days, my life slowly emerged from the oppression of daily schedule. As far as I could tell, only one thing happens here according to the clock: At 6 p.m., just in time for sunset, a waiter brought a glass of sparkling wine and tray of canapes to my porch. Otherwise, Nukubati answered to my whim. I ate when I was hungry, played when I was ready, napped as I felt the need. The toys of resort life lay in front of me: catamarans, glass-bottom kayaks and an assortment of powerboats to take guests fishing, snorkeling, diving or sightseeing.

Something seemed to occupy everyone here, for even though the resort was full, I ran across people only now and again at breakfast or dinner. I heard a whisper or two, then they melted into their pleasures.

Mine was diving. Divemaster Voggnie Steiner packed us lunch and we headed to the Great Sea Reef, a 300-mile-long wonderland of hard corals and tropical fish 15 miles offshore. The reef is rarely visited. (Live-aboard dive boats prefer the more unusual soft corals to the south.) Today, there were three of us--a mate to handle the boat, Steiner and me--on an empty ocean for the half-hour ride toward the distant barrier reef.

“Follow me,” said Steiner as he splashed into the cerulean water just outside a lineup of perfect and unridden five-foot waves that broke onto the reef top. He followed shafts of sunlight down. We reached a plateau at 45 feet and swam to the lip of a sheer wall. We descended to 70 feet. To our right, open ocean. To the left, a reef of colors as vivid and varied as a drive through Christmas Tree Land. Clouds of fish circled above and blankets of them passed below, including a spectacular group of batfish. Down deep, we saw white-tip reef sharks.

A dogtooth tuna, as long as me and 100 times faster, torpedoed to within a couple of feet of my mask and then hovered. Always before, I’ve snorkeled or dived in places where fish are accustomed to people. Not here. The tuna, with leering fangs, seemed to be inquiring whether this strange intruder was edible.

We surfaced and the mate said we’d missed a marlin as it leaped clear of the water 200 yards away. During a lunch break, Steiner and I grabbed our snorkel gear and swam with a pod of small, squeaking spinner dolphins. Later, we made a second scuba dive in the sheltered water inside the breakers, where elkhorn coral grows to resemble forests of Joshua trees and where coral mounts rise randomly from a sand bottom.

“Pub Crawl is what I call this place,” said Steiner. “You crawl from one coral mound to the next. There are more of them than you have air in your tank.”

During my stay, I snorkeled elsewhere among the inner reefs and ventured out on a skiff to take a turn at hand-line fishing, Fiji style. Finally, I told the Meeks yes, I’d like a private island for a day. Lunch was packed, a tub of bitter ale was iced down, a beach umbrella was folded up and a boat picked me off the beach. I was propelled toward the horizon, where the falling tide had exposed a tiny unnamed sand cay. I was dropped off with a writing desk, a lounge chair, an ice chest and, alas, the only companion available: Evelyn Waugh’s “Officers and Gentlemen” in paperback.

The boat disappeared. I was now four islands from civilization. For one of the few times in my life, I was standing on ground marked on no map. You simply cannot be too conservative these days when it comes to getting away.

Usually, honeymooning couples cavort on these ephemeral pieces of ocean shallow. The day before I had teased a couple from Denver when they chose to venture out to a cay. Careful, I joked, they charge $10 an hour for use of a telescope here. “Well,” smiled the bride, “we’ll have to make sure they get their money’s worth, won’t we?”

It’s not a bad place to be alone, either. Without the remotest chance of interruption, I read. I watched parrot fish feed in the shallows. I recalibrated those internal settings that are knocked out of kilter by everyday urban whirlwinds. A man gets a gauge on what kind of person he has become when he has only himself for company.

Nights at Nukubati drew me to the pavilion. Fijian chef Marama Taraivini provided the biggest surprise of my trip: food that is not just exotic but mouth-watering, like her delicate coconut-and-carrot soup the color of sunset and the whitefish-and-prawn quenelles with orange sauce. Each afternoon, I was given a menu with two or three choices. The food was prepared whenever I wandered to the pavilion. I stuck with fish because I noticed it was delivered fresh in the afternoon by local fishermen. Chef Taraivini took first pick of the day’s catch.

Sometimes Voggnie Steiner, his father, brother and others gathered on mats to play guitars and sing. With the trade winds blowing, they passed bowls of kava, a mild root-based drink with ceremonial significance and reputed sedative qualities. As if any of us needed any help unwinding.

Two hours away by boat and car lies another world.

On the other side of Vanua Levu, the rain forest side, I found another island just off the coast that is only slightly larger than Nukubati, a spot where children are not just tolerated but practically venerated. Families who visit the Jean-Michel Cousteau Fiji Islands Resort at Savusavu can hire a full-time nanny for quite reasonable rates so parents can play or nap as they wish. Children have their own day-camp, and sometimes provide the evening entertainment.

The resort, featuring 25 luxury thatch-roof bures, emphasizes conservation and cultural themes. Mike and Sharyn McCoy, the ex-pat Americans who manage the resort, provide a daily lineup of outings led by naturalists, a trip to the Savusavu open market, Sunday church with Fijian choirs that can make the rafters rattle and spirits soar, hikes in the rain forests and dive-boat trips to outlying reefs, where Fiji’s signature soft corals sway with the tides in shifting walls of color.

As one might expect at a resort named “Cousteau,” the diving is smashingly good. Expert and intermediate divers rate these waters among the healthiest and most biologically abundant in the Tropics. Several times a year, Jean-Michel visits to lead groups himself, allowing anyone who joins him the luxury of sprinkling future conversations with, “When Cousteau and I went diving. . . .”

I visited serene coral mounds with Cousteau that he called “jewel boxes,” where our divemaster removed his regulator and let cleaner-shrimp scamper through his mouth, scrubbing his teeth. At a dive site called “Grand Central Station,” we hovered on the edge of a coral reef that plunges a mile straight down, while gray and white-tip reef sharks prowled the waters with us. At the resort, just as at Nukubati, meals are served in a soaring communal “restaurant bure.” Taxis can be summoned for the 10-minute ride into Savusavu for those who want to sample village restaurants or watch the weekly darts competition at the tiny but renowned Savusavu Yacht Club.

About 20 miles offshore from Savusavu is another isolated redoubt. Moody’s Namena, or resort (where I didn’t stay), is tucked away on its own 110-acre island, accessible only by seaplane or boat. A hike up a cliff on one side provides ledge-like outcroppings for a few surround-view bures. On the other side, I found the beaches of my dreams: tiny, hidden crescents of floury sand overhung with palms, backed by rain forest jungle, and not a footprint to be found.

Moody’s is practically its own nature reserve, with a bird rookery, seasonal turtle nesting areas and easy snorkeling over pristine, jewel-box reefs with a scattering of now-rare giant clams. When I walked into the small main pavilion, high on a hilltop overlooking the sea, I heard only the wind and the tinkle of china as one couple took tea. It was if I’d intruded into someone’s living room, so quiet and intimate was the feel.

Not all of Fiji is so breathtaking. For a day, I poked around the resorts near Nadi airport on the main island of Viti Levu. In saving money, guests sacrifice much of what I found appealing here. Some of the resorts, though perhaps not all, offer only swimming pools and palms. The beaches are little more than brown tidal flats.

It strikes me that Fiji is a place to splurge. In Hawaii or the Caribbean, extra money may get you only a nicer room or a fancy hotel lobby, and perhaps that’s not important. But in Fiji, it will get you a piece of your own island, a beach for you alone, a reef on which no one else is swimming, a sand-cay to fly your flag, a chance to reacquaint yourself with yourself, with a lover, with your children--and the rock-solid promise that there will be no red light flashing on any infernal telephone when you head to your bure in the afternoon for a nap.

For whatever you’ve gained materially, maybe life has lost something for you, too. The little resorts of Fiji can help you find what it was.

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Guidebook: Kicking Back in Fiji

Telephone numbers and prices: The country code for Fiji is 679. Resort rates are for a double room for one night with minimum stays required, and include all meals and most recreational activities. Alcohol, scuba diving and deep-sea fishing are extra.

Getting there: Air Pacific and Air New Zealand have nonstop flights from Los Angeles to Nadi. Sunflower Airlines offers inter-island service.

Where to stay: Nukubati Island Resort, telephone (800) 426-3644, fax (805) 685-3385, https://www.nukubati.com. Rates: $550 to $660, minimum four nights, includes transportation to and from Labasa airport.

Jean-Michel Cousteau Fiji Islands Resort, tel. (800) 246-3454, fax (415) 788-0150, https://www.fijiresort.com. Rates: $405 to $625, minimum three nights, includes airport pickup in Savusavu. Children under 12 free if they stay in the same room as parents. Personal nanny about $25 per day.

Moody’s Namena, tel. 813-764, fax 812-366, https://www.bulafiji.com/web/moodys. Rate: $344, minimum five nights.

When to go: June to September is high season.The rainy season, which brings the threat of tropical cyclones, typically occurs from late November through April.

For further information: Fiji Visitor’s Bureau, tel. (310) 568-1616, fax (310) 670-2318, https://www.bulafiji.com.