Lulu, our host at the Nabua Lodge “resort” at Fiji’s Yasawa islands, was telling us we’re part of his family. All seven of us at the dinner table, including the German girls and guy and the Norwegian dudes. His family grows every day when new guests arrive at this backpacker haven, one of dozens of beachside hostels where the dorms sleep 12 and electricity exists for five hours a day.

When it’s checkout time, his family shrinks again.

We had just shared a meal of fried fish, green beans, carrots and potatoes over a bed of ramen. “Now we teach you three Fiji dances. Come,” he beckoned to the activity room, a few steps from the outdoor patio where we ate.

The males all made a run for it. Like us, they were full form the meal and, being Western males, they likely don’t dance before downing a few drinks.

“Make two lines facing the bar,” he said. Two lines of two people each: Bianca and I, plus the two German girls. The first dance, called Bula Dance, goes like this: you do two hitchhiker’s hails on each side of your head, then twirl your wrists up and down, followed by a half-Macarena of crossing your arms across your chest then slapping your thighs. The cycle is concluded by thrusting your hips forward, yelling “Bula!” and hopping 90 degrees to the left to start all over again.

“Now with the music!”

Another staffer was manning the stereo behind the bar counter. He pressed buttons but nothing happened. This went on for a good two minutes, then a Polynesian-sounding reggaeton roared from the speakers for a few seconds and soon returned to silence. The DJ looked up nervously at us, while Lulu froze in place, hitchhiker’s hail still armed and ready.

More silence. More short blasts of the wrong music. The DJ looked like he was caught cheating on a test. Lulu turned his head back at us and said, “Sorry guys. Just a moment.”

It was a pregnant moment. The German girls eyed each other, as though that would speed up the situation. We were four people, trying to be good guests, standing in a dark, silent room with two Fijians and a malfunctioning stereo. Lulu started barking something in Fijian to the DJ who shook his head in a concession of powerlessness.

It’s perfectly possible that the German girls were just bored or amused, but it’s tempting to project one’s own paranoia unto others, and I was certain that the girls were hoping someone, anyone who is good at gracefully aborting long, awkward moments would step in and rescue us all.

I placed my hand on Lulu’s shoulder and said, “Don’t worry about it. We’ll dance tomorrow, when there are more people.” Lulu didn’t react. He kept looking at the DJ, his hitchhiking thumb a little less erect. I tried again and my voice was softer, faltering. He glanced back at me. His eyes were huge and sweat was beading on his forehead.

At that very moment the music screamed from the speakers. We did the Bula Dance. We did the Snake Dance, in which we get in a line and do whatever the leader does, until he yells “over!” and the tail person becomes the head.

As soon as the song ended, Lulu said, “That’s it.” Everybody left the room as fast as their walking paces allowed, back to the dorms, to the bathrooms, or to the moonlit surf just outside the front gate, where the gents were smoking cigarettes.