Турист в Фиджи отказался от курортной церемонии ради аутентичного кавы у местных жителей

Good kava starts with good roots, far from the resort gift shop. Photo / Getty Images If ever you’re tempted to ditch the tourists and follow Fijian locals in pursuit of adventure and good times, make sure it’s for pure, unadulterated kava, writes Chris Stead The sky was bursting into beautiful flames as the sun set over the Fijian palm trees, but my mind was elsewhere. I was on the hunt for kava. The boys back home had been talking it up well before I’d left for paradise, big Cheshire grins across their knowing faces. And tonight was the night. My luxury five-star resort was bringing some local culture to its guests in the form of a kava ceremony, and I had arrived early to get a good seat. Kava – or yaqona in the local tongue – is a drink made from the root of the Piper methysticum plant. It’s central to Fijian culture and a sacred cultural tradition. Within its earthy, not particularly pleasant taste is kavalactone, a compound that creates a calm, relaxed state without messing with your clarity. Sharing kava is said to create an invisible bond between participants, but there wasn’t much chance of that during this loud, tourist-centric affair. “Meet me tomorrow at 10am, and I will take you to get kava.” The mission begins So it was that I found myself standing outside the resort the next morning with no idea what I had gotten myself into. At 10am, my new friend turned up in a small 4x4 with the top popped. As soon as I heard Bob Marley playing out of his speakers, I knew every little thing was gonna be alright. As we drove, we spoke about music, the resort, and island life. Good kava started with good roots, I was told, and as far as he was concerned, that meant heading several villages over, to a local market. A sensory overload of smells, sights and sounds, he led me on a winding path between hawkers, deep under the large, makeshift roof. At the very back was our man; piles of ugly-looking root balls lined along his tables. They were covered in dirt and appeared as if they had not so much been harvested as forcefully heaved from the turf by some colossus. At my host’s command, I purchased some roots, small bowls and a cloth bag, used for straining. Back in the 4x4, we took off across the island, past farms and palms, laughing as the wind whipped at our hair. Our next stop was his home village for phase two. My gift to the village was going to be one of the kava roots, and in exchange, they would help me prepare my stash. A great deal. The good kava His home village was a world away from the resort and his sharp staff attire. A handful of bure scattered haphazardly in the space behind the ocean-lining palms. Dogs and kids scurried about the sandy patches between. The homes had no doors and some, no walls – external or internal. This was real Fijian village life, and it was so much simpler and rustic than I could have imagined. In the centre of the village was a tuki bowl – a vase-like, metallic cylinder – and a tuki, a long metal pole. We jammed the roots into the bowl until it was overflowing, then we stood opposite each other and took it in turns to lift the stick up and then pound it down into the bowl. Clang! Clang! Clang! It’s very heavy and you could only do about 10 pounds before you’d pass it to the next man to catch a breather. Shortly, the telltale sound attracted attention and two men joined us. The four of us stood shoulder to shoulder, beading sweat. My weak hits were the source of much merriment, but I couldn’t stop; I knew that. Not till it was done. After all, I had found myself not just at the centre of traditional Fijian culture, but part of it. Slowly, the roots pushed down beyond sight. Then, countless “clangs” later, they were but a coarse powder. The good kava. I gave most of it to the village, then packed two paper bags to take back home. What an experience. Get together and feel alright When I jumped on the plane to head home, I felt fantastic. It wasn’t because I was coming home with kava for the boys, but with a story – a memory I’d never forget.