After the earthquake in Chile, Fiji was on high alert for a tsunami.

I wanted to document the preparations at the island of Waya Lailai in case of disaster. Luckily, nothing happened.

I did the voice-over in a library in Auckland, NZ. This explains the rather sedated voice-over.

Paradise or tourist trap? Rustic sanctuary or stuck in the past?

We asked visitors and natives what Fiji means to them. The answers were diverse and sometimes surprising.

Set to the music from White Sandy Beach Hotel in Naviti Island and from Bounty Island.

Here’s an interview with musicians from the White Sandy Beach Lodge in Fiji’s Naviti Island.

Interviewing Kesaia Stark of the White Sandy Beach Lodge in Naviti Island

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.

It’s not often that good business comes disguised as a scam. It’s usually the other way around. Hucksters excel at social engineering. They are trust hackers who hot-wire the impulse to trust that is baked into human DNA.

The travel agents who tried to sell us an island-hopping package at Fiji’s international airport were doing everything right: the smiles and warm, welcoming attitudes. They seemed curious about who we are. They took their time to explain us the options that suited our budgets.

We had settled on the Bula Pass, ticket that gives you unlimited seven-day access to the boat that hops between the Fijian mainland and the western islands. It allows us choose how many days we want to stay in each island and move around at our pace. For $300 Fiji dollars – roughly $150 USD – it sounded ideal.

As I reached for my wallet, our agent and her colleague started to prattle excitedly in Fijian. Among the unintelligible I heard “Fiji dollars” and “New Zealand dollars”. One of them made a call that took five minutes. Finally one of them said, “There’s a mistake in the brochure we gave you. They changed their prices just recently. The Bula Pass is actually $391.”

I saw what they were doing. It was 30 minutes until the only boat left for the islands. We were tired from a 25-hour trip and sorely anticipating a quiet beach. A day wasted in Nadi, the lacklustre port city where we landed, would have been unthinkable. What’s another $90 FJD for these sun-starved gringos?

I looked again at the brochure she showed me. It said $299. Fiji dollars. Valid until March 31. They acknowledged it, but insisted they were powerless, that it’s an outdated price. I told Bianca to get her stuff. We’re leaving, I said. We’ll go somewhere else.

“But they’ll give you the same price wherever you go,” our agent said. “This price is determined by the boat operator.”

I turned around and approached her desk. “When you sell us something for $299 then change it to $391, you lose our trust. I can no longer believe you.”

She gave me a look of someone who just learned about a personal misfortune but can’t do anything about it.

The walk-away is the last resort in the haggler’s arsenal. If you can’t talk a price down, the threat of losing a customer can often sway the most determined merchant. They didn’t say a word as we left.

“What’s the plan,” Bianca asked me. My best one was to go to the Nadi port and see what we can get there. We walked towards the cabs. Our agent stuck her head out of her office window that looks onto the airport lobby.

“Come back,” he beckoned. “We’ll give you that price!”

“$299?”

“Yes, come back.”

The manager at the port would honour the advertised price, she told us. We only had to pay the agent’s cut now and the rest at the marina.

“What if they don’t correct the price?”

“I know you don’t believe me. But they said they’ll charge you $299. Show her this brochure. Tell them Lucy sent you.”

“If they don’t, can I come back and get my money back?”

Lucy smiled. “Yes, and you can even bring the police.”

At the port, the manager was stunned by the brochure. “Where did you get this? This should not be in print.” Sure enough, the real price for the package was $391. “We’ll honour this,” she said. “But we’re keeping that brochure.”

It took 24 hours for us to leave Vancouver and arrive in Fiji, which meant a total of two sleep-deprived nights. Add to that a quasi-ripoff at an airport travel agency and a 21-hour time zone difference.

It was a shock to the system, one that made my first steps on Fiji’s ivory sands seem unreal. My body had arrived at one of the most spectacular tropical paradises it ever set foot on. But my head was still in a cloud of fatigue and confusion.

But, little by little, harmony prevailed.

There was the welcome serenade by the staff of Bounty Island as we stepped off the boat. There were the flowers that adorned the head of men and women. More flowers on the tables, the sinks, the trees. Being greeted with a sunny “Bula!” by each and every Fijian. The turquoise sea, the purple starfish, the rainbow sea creatures, swimming among manta rays. We were treated to bountiful meals and enjoyed a sun was in no rush to leave. The men wore sarongs, the women wide smiles and maternal attitudes.

The night ended with the drinking of kava, a ceremonial root that has become vestigial in Fijian life, consumed ritualistically mostly by village elders. Mathew, who prepared our drink, said its psychoactive effect would be like alcohol: relaxation, lowered inhibitions, and, in case of excessive use, difficulty walking and partial paralysis.

I don’t know if it was the kava, the sapphire ocean, the miserable nights that preceded, or a mix of it all. But I slept like a child among the other tourists in our windowless 24-bed dorm.