Bula, Vinaka, Maca… and a little dizziness
Updated: 1 day ago
Kandavu, Fiji — August 12 through September 3, 2025
After a few days in “civilization,” Mirko and I usually got fed up pretty quickly. Especially in Fiji’s larger villages, such as Denarau, or cities like Nadi, which are also teeming with tourists. Browsing in supermarkets, going to a restaurant, and eating ice cream—especially eating ice cream! —is nice, but as a sailor, you soon find yourself longing for the tranquility of a crystal-clear bay, the soft sound of the waves gently lapping around the bow, the crunch of sand underfoot, and above all, the serenity of the islanders, for whom the famous “Fiji Time” is second nature.
To escape this urban hustle and bustle—incidentally, no European would ever call a Fijian city “hectic”—we took advantage of the next window of good weather and sailed to Kadavu, a group of islands south of Viti Levu. To our delight, Doris and Wolfi joined us, better known as the Sea Nomads (www.seenomaden.at). For them, Kadavu was still uncharted territory, even now, during their third circumnavigation of the globe. With a buddy boat, the whole thing is twice as much fun anyway! Plus, it doubles our chances of finally catching a delicious tuna or—even better—a mahi-mahi, which we’ve all been longing for.
After a 19-hour sail, we reached the Great Astrolabe Reef early in the morning. It almost completely encircles Kadavu, which covers an area of about 478 km². The reef itself spans approximately 1,000 km² and is broken up by only a few passages. We steered through one of these passages toward the west side of Ono Island. By comparison, Australia’s Great Barrier Reef, at 344,400 km², is almost unimaginably larger—a difference like night and day. But that doesn’t mean there’s any less coral or fish diversity here.
We dropped anchor in various bays of the idyllic archipelago. We stayed for a few nights in Nabouwalu Bay on the western side of Ono Island, met the first hospitable residents of Kadavu, and explored not only the underwater world but also the rural part of Ono on a hike across the island. Although we didn’t quite get to see the part of the island we’d originally had in mind—at some point we must have taken the wrong turn and followed a trail through the jungle—Marco, Ella, Dorika, and Lupo still enjoyed the change of pace from the touristy Port Denarau, where the heat radiates mercilessly off the concrete surfaces.
Dorika? Lupo? Marco? Ella? Where on earth did those names come from? Well… in Fiji, there are sometimes these awkward moments. Here’s what happened: An overly friendly local woman greeted us at the dock after we’d reached her village by dinghy. With a warm smile, she shakes each of our hands in turn and asks our names. When Mirko gives his, two thoughtful wrinkles form between her eyebrows. He repeats it, but the big invisible question mark remains on her face. Then a beaming smile: “Aaaah. Marco! Bula! Nice to meet you!” That’s how it went in every village—no one could pronounce our names. At some point, Doris asked the legitimate question: Why do we even go through this every time when we could make it easier on ourselves? That’s how our “island names” were born. Dorika, in particular, brings even broader smiles to the locals’ faces—after all, her name suddenly sounds truly Fijian.
Seven miles south of Nabouwalu, the worsening weather drove us into another beautiful bay, at the end of which lies the village of Naigoro, nestled among the more wildly overgrown mangroves. After the obligatory dinghy ride to the concrete pier to present the chief with the traditional gift during the sevusevu ceremony, one might almost think that the villagers were not only hiding behind the mangroves but also trying to use the muddy ground to shield themselves a little from strangers.
Island villages are all similar and yet so different. In some, the kava we brought is accepted with reverence. In Naigoro, however, after a less-than-ceremonial handover to the chief, our kava was unceremoniously tossed around among the men in the community hall. Confused, Doris finally asked if it might be due to the quality—after all, Kadavu is known for having the best kava in the country, while ours came from the neighboring island of Vanua Levu. But the villagers waved it off, thanked us warmly for the large bundle of dried roots, and offered no further explanation. We suspect that the “tossing around” was a kind of quality check—poor-quality kava, cut with sawdust (yes, that happens), would simply crumble apart in the process.
Mirko and I had already been to Kadavu last year, so we were really eager to visit a certain family again: Saiassi and his wife on Dravuni. Dravuni is one of the best-known villages in the archipelago because a cruise ship carrying thousands of tourists docks there every few months. On those days, “traditional village life” is staged: massages on every corner, hot dogs, cake, cold coconuts, beer, Fiji Water, and handmade accessories (mostly “Made in China,” of course) are sold at colorful stalls. On a perfectly ordinary Monday afternoon, however, things looked completely different. As we strolled through the village, Saiassi recognized us immediately—despite the crowds of tourists who had likely passed through the island over the past year. With a hearty “Oooh! Same girlfriend as last year!” he invited us onto his small wooden terrace, where I was finally able to enjoy one of his lime-leaf teas again—a drink we knew so well.
During our three weeks in Kadavu, we not only rekindled old friendships but also made new ones. The Fijians really make it easy for you to do so. Between snorkeling trips, walks on the beach, shared dinners, or sundowners on the Nomad, the Yum Yum, or by the campfire on the beach, there was plenty of time to visit the villages and chat with the locals. Especially in the south, in Niudua, we felt immediately welcome—once we’d actually found the place. The path there led through dense mangroves. From our anchorage, the river mouth that served as the entrance would have been impossible to spot without satellite images or tips. We chugged up the river for fifteen minutes, with mangroves towering high on both sides, their green foliage glowing in the sun. Then we turned off, and through the thicket, the first huts of Jioma, the main village, came into view. A short walk further on, we finally reached Niudua, where a young man with a broad grin ran to meet us at the edge of the village: Bill.
We spent the whole day with Bill, two other adults—Mantis and Tumanu—and the young Fijians Aron and Benny. We’d heard about a hike that was supposed to be challenging but beautiful and that led to a waterfall. Our new friends didn’t hesitate for a second and offered to accompany us. For two hours, we made our way along muddy jungle trails, over slippery rocks, and through a riverbed until we finally reached the well-hidden waterfall. We cooled off in the ice-cold swimming hole, shared our snacks, and then returned to the village, covered in mud and sweat. There, we sat down in the community hall to rest our feet—and, of course, to drink kava together. To make it, the root was first pounded by hand in a huge tree trunk that served as a mortar and mixed with water to form a brown brew that, in the end, looked just like the river water we’d struggled through…and that’s exactly what it tasted like: earth. Kava really doesn’t taste good—but it’s not really about the taste anyway; it’s about the ceremony, the community—and maybe a little bit about the numbing effect it has on your tongue and head. First, clap three times and accept the coconut shell… “Bula”… and drink… “Vinaka”… “Maca”… and clap again. And then the whole thing all over again. And a second round… and a third. Until the effects of the kava reach your brain and you feel a little dizzy and your tongue goes numb.
Whether it was because of that or simply the excitement of the day—in any case, I fell into bed early and content.
The three weeks on Kadavu flew by. Reuniting with old friends and making new ones made our time here especially precious. Every bay, every village, and every evening spent with the locals and/or the sea nomads showed us that sailing isn’t just about the sea and the wind—it’s above all about the people we meet. Kadavu may seem tiny compared to the big reefs, but it holds a huge place in our memories.
And then there was …
TYRP1
When you walk through one of the villages in Melanesia, as a Palagi (“white person”), you’re often met with curious stares from all sides. Most of those fawn-brown eyes belong to children with broad grins, deeply tanned skin, and dark brown hair. Sometimes, however, there is one among all these pretty children who also catches our eye: a young islander with dark skin and a head of bright blond curls.
What to many looks at first glance like European influence actually has its origins in a unique genetic trait: a variant of the TYRP1 gene that occurs only here. It gives about one in ten children golden hair—completely independent of the genes responsible for blond hair in Europeans.
Naigoro Village The chief of Nabouwalu Village and his wife are pleased with the gift—the kava root. A walk through the bush – we were still on the track here. Rarely seen: locals at work. A straw-blond boy with dark skin. No European influence, but a mutated gene. How about a bouquet of Island Cabbage? Diving professional Mirko explores the coral reefs. Paddle tour through the mangroves of Naigoro Pony and us. The Swedish-Fijian wants to open a yacht club on his island one day. Daniela is enjoying the view. Find your balance... on a palm tree! Children from the village bodyboarding at Dravuni Beach. A warm welcome from Saiassi in Dravuni. For Mirko, it was already his third visit since 2022. The famous lime leaf tea at Saiassi, Dravuni Sunrise hike up Dravuni's local mountain A successful catch early in the morning on Dravuni Island. Our buddy boat, the Nomad, close behind us. The Chief and Mirko are the first to venture across the "Golden Gate Bridge" at Jioma Village. The chief at Jioma has clearly lost a few marbles. The islanders catch absolutely everything... Bu and Sisi, the two beach kittens of Soso Bay Even Mirko had to take off his hiking flip-flops for this and wade barefoot through the mud. Our guides from Niudua for the hike to the waterfall. One thing that is never missing: Suki (tobacco rolled in newspaper). The whole Niudua gang in front of the waterfall Mantis prepares the kava in the traditional way. Some children from Nidua were seeing Palagis (white people) for the first time. Legs caked in mud, clothes soaked with sweat, and broad grins on their faces! Niudua Village Idyllic anchorage in Yauravu Bay Campfire with the sea nomads Doris and Wolf. The dinghy must be moored. The locals always have a grin on their faces. In search of the regional chief in Ravitaki Village Eaten by a rocky Pac-Man – what a beautiful ending! Matanuku Island
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