Barefoot in Fiji — The importance of remembering the shoeless times
We sat, fifteen of us, in a small fishing boat under the canopy, smiling nervously at each other. If we didn’t smile, we’d give in to the mild panic growing in the back of our minds as the boat rocked violently with the waves. One young woman cringed as her elbow bashed the side and slid to sit in the boat’s center. The ride lasted about an hour and a half but felt much longer.
And none of us knew each other, but we were about to. Real well.
At twenty-six, I’d not travelled much yet. After a lifetime in Southern Ontario, I’d ventured as far as the West Coast and Florida, more than many people from my tiny town. But the summer before, I travelled to Europe for the first time — Italy, Amsterdam, and France — and my confidence grew enough to sign up for a two-month-long volunteer trip to the South Pacific. This boat was the final stretch to get our group from Fiji’s main island (Viti Levu) to a smaller one off its southern coast.
Our crossing was almost cancelled because of the waves, and at the halfway point, I’d begun to wonder if we had made the wrong choice. The ocean swell rose above the boat’s height. We proceeded at a crawl, long surpassing the 45 minutes it was supposed to take us to cross.
Finally, we turned into a protected bay, and the ocean gave up its welcoming joke and became calm, flat, and peaceful. On the shore, dozens of barefoot island community members waited to welcome us, waving in the afternoon sun. One woman wore an Ottawa Senators T-shirt.
Despite my stomach still flopping around like a dead fish, I grinned. I’d never seen a more beautiful place.
Welcome to Beqa.
Beqa (pronounced BENG-ga) is a small island south of Viti Levu (mainland Fiji). It’s only 15 square kilometers but is home to many small villages and quiet resorts and is the birthplace of Fiji firewalking. Which makes sense — Fijian skin is tough. Our host father would hold fire ants in his palm and giggle, “Aw, they’re trying to bite me!” as we ran away screaming.
It was early July 2013. Our group pioneered a new project to monitor the coral reef systems around the island. The company I travelled with (which I don’t believe survived the pandemic), based in the UK, was mainly known for gap year volunteer trips, so a good chunk of the group was bright-eyed high school and university graduates. At 27, I was the oldest.
I admit, after the sketchy ride in, carting our bags and supplies up a muddy hill to a corrugated aluminum shack and getting feasted on by mosquitoes that first evening, I’d begun to feel nervous about spending two months there. Despite heavy wood shutters on the windows, some rain found its way in and onto my head overnight as I lay cold and uncomfortable on my inflatable sleeping mat.
And my poor, poor feet! They throbbed after I ditched my shoes and walked barefoot on the rocky, muddy path. Rocks and roots scratched and bruised the sides and soles of my feet so severely that I’d spend the next week limping around. Some of the others had already decided never to put their shoes back on. “The Fijians don’t wear shoes!” Yes, well, the Fijians can also hold fire ants in their palms. I didn’t think it mattered that my shoes were constantly wet and muddy; I needed the protection.
By the end of the first week, my shoes had found a permanent home in the bottom of my bag and would not reappear until I left Beqa.
The #1 essential item for life on a tropical island.
The next time someone asks what you’d bring to a deserted tropical island, tell them: baby powder.
Because we never wore shoes, our feet were consistently wet. At nighttime, after rinsing the day’s dirt from them before crawling into our sleeping bags, baby powder helped remove the excess moisture, which was unlikely to evaporate as we slept. Particularly between the toes.
We didn’t do this at first.
A few days of wet feet results in fungus and sores between one’s toes, which is incredibly uncomfortable and a little gross.
When I was seven, I was diagnosed with juvenile rheumatoid arthritis in my left ankle. Foot pain and I aren’t strangers. But between the cuts and scrapes and bruises and, now, sores between our toes, even I was nearing my wit’s end. So, my bedtime routine included brushing my teeth and hair, picking slivers out of my palms and soles, and applying baby powder between my toes.
But one night, about two or three weeks into my trip, something amazing happened.
My feet didn’t hurt anymore.
I realized I hadn’t had to pick slivers out for a while. My bruises were gone, and–after applying baby powder religiously–the sores disappeared. I didn’t even miss my shoes. They were hindrances, annoying and clunky things that ruined my connection to the soil, grass, sand, and sea.
And I truly began to feel like a Fijian.
The power of being barefoot
For two months, I lived on that tiny island. Our only electricity was a generator that we only turned on to charge the laptop the head research officers used to record our data. Running water was a pipe stuck in the nearby river, which we used for drinking water and cooking. Occasionally, we’d shower off after a dive, but mostly, we bathed in the river.
No Wifi. No television. No phones, no video games. No contact with the outside world.
When you live with a group of people in a small hut, with little to do but hang out and talk and explore the world around you, it’s difficult not to get close. We were a family — a vuvale — and we loved each other dearly.
And the soles of my feet were ROCK. I never tried firewalking, but I guarantee it would not have been a problem. It would take months after returning to Canada for the skin to slough off completely. Once I found my ‘Fiji-feet,’ life at camp became much more comfortable. My tiny sleeping space grew cozy, I loved bathing in a river, I learned some Fijian and to cook in their style.
I’ll never forget the image of my Fijian ‘father,’ Mala, waking me up by standing over me with a mesh dive bag full of fresh-caught fish.
“Get up,” he said. “I’m teaching you to cook.”
Mala was incredulous that I wasn’t married yet and convinced himself it was because I can’t cook (I can, I just don’t like to). It’s customary in Fiji to marry young, even as young as 16. At 27, I was basically an old maid.
I wished he understood how young I felt, though. This trip was just over a year after my mother passed away from cancer. I was lost and depressed, needing something –anything–to bring me back to life. To make me feel not like a child who didn’t understand her place in the world. Fiji did that for me.
On Fiji Time
Like on many other islands in the world, the locals often commented on ‘Fiji time’ — as in, “It’s a tropical island, time and schedules don’t really matter. Just sit back, relax and enjoy life.”
‘On Fiji time’ became our mantra. Often, I’d lie in the grass or the sand, watching the birds or the bats or waves or the village children climbing coconut trees with machetes between their teeth, and tell myself never to forget Fiji time.
Remember how you feel right now, I’d tell myself. Remember what it’s like to be calm, connected with nature, happy in paradise. Remember what it’s like to be barefoot.
I do forget, and often, as you can imagine. The stress of life barely eased as I grew older, changing careers another two or three times, moving between three provinces, and surviving a global pandemic. My feet are now as soft as ever; no Fijian roughness remains.
But every so often, I’ll walk along the beach by my Vancouver Island home, watching my puppy prance in the waves, and I’ll take off my shoes and dig my feet in the sand. A gull will scream, the waves will break, and I’ll close my eyes and imagine I’m back on that island.
I remember when a new group of volunteers came to the island about six weeks into my trip. We helped get their gear up the hill to our home. We ran by the newbies on bare feet, laughing and pushing each other as they slipped and cursed the mud.
“Don’t worry,” we said. “You’ll accept, eventually, that in Fiji, you just have to go barefoot. And you’ll love it.”
