I thought I knew Fiji ... but a river, a village and a story changed it

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little nervous. Carved by thousands of years of rainfall, embedded with fossilised coral, and shaped by volcanic forces, the canyon feels impenetrable, almost prehistoric. Thick vines coil along the canyon walls, palm trees the size of eucalypts stretch for the dappled light, and if a pterodactyl glided overhead, I probably wouldn't blink.

It took an hour's drive to reach the departure point for our whitewater rafting tour of the Upper Navua River, a 23-kilometre journey through one of the world's longest navigable slot canyons. Our three rafts have been lowered by zipline to the rapids below, and now, ankle-deep in water, we gather for the safety briefing, the river surging along the canyon walls before disappearing around a bend.

"Hello, my name is Moses," our guide begins solemnly. "It's good I'm your guide, because I can part the waters." He spreads his arms before dissolving into laughter.

"Well hey!" the American beside me shoots back. "This guy is Noah," she says, pointing to her husband. "So if anything goes wrong, he can sort you out with an ark."

Welcome to the heart of Fiji: where the jokes flow as fast as the river, there are fewer tourists than you might expect, and experiences feel far removed from the resort bubble.

Rivers Fiji is a founding member of the Duavata Collective, a cooperative of small, locally-owned tourism businesses located across Fiji, featuring everything from homestays to hotels, a chocolate plantation and even a traditional Drua boat operator. Its goal is simple: tourism that champions community, operates sustainably and keeps profits in local hands.

Fiji welcomed record visitor numbers in 2025, but most visitors still stay inside resort grounds: cocktails by the pool, a quick snorkel, maybe a sunset cruise. It's a formula that works. But it reveals only a fraction of the country.

Most people picture Fiji as a series of tropical islands, but the Coral Coast also offers reef breaks perfect for surfing. From the top of the Sigatoka sand dunes, I peer down at the glassy six-foot waves curling left and right. Perfect lines, and yet... no surfers. None.

"Too many bullsharks," my guide Jake says, pointing to the river mouth.

Sigatoka National Park is one of those places I've driven past countless times without really noticing. The park was established not only for its ecological value but also for its historical significance. It's believed to be the landing place of Fiji's earliest settlers and remains one of the country's most important archaeological sites.

Re-creations of clay water vessels used by early Fijians are displayed in a small museum near the entrance. On the beach below, however, the only evidence of modern humanity is the tide of plastic bottles washed ashore. We carry out as many as we can.

We enter the park through the back hills and exit via a mahogany forest planted in the 1960s to stabilise the shifting dunes that once threatened to swallow the highway linking Suva and Nadi. The forest is cool and shaded, alive with bats and birdsong. Woven art installations hang among the trees, ghostlike shapes that give the place an ethereal quality, the kind of installation you rarely see in Fiji, yet reflecting a growing local art movement.

A few minutes' drive away, along Sigatoka's Sunset Strip, sits Hot Glass Fiji, a glass-blowing studio tucked beneath the branches of a mango tree. The strip lies in the shadow of the enormous Outrigger resort, yet remains largely under the radar: a scattering of casual eateries, waterfront motels and this unexpected creative hub.

Inside the studio, a brightly lit display showcases coconut-shaped light fixtures, cobalt-blue glass starfish and elegant vases, while to the other side, the workshop hums with the heat of a blazing furnace.

Watching the small crew at work feels like witnessing an industrial ballet: firing, rolling, shaping and tapping molten glass before placing the finished object in a sealed cabinet to cool.

I'm here to try the experience myself. The plan is simple: create a masterpiece. The reality is equal parts terrifying and fascinating. Using a metal rod, I roll glowing glass with my left hand while shaping it with water-soaked wooden tools in my right. It's like patting your head and rubbing your stomach at the same time; except the material in question is 1100-degree molten glass.

Two assistants guide me patiently through the process. I feel less like Demi Moore in Ghost and more like a puppet with tangled strings, but eventually a recognisable blue vase emerges. I carefully pinch the neck with giant pliers before it's whisked away to cool.

To calm my nerves, coffee is required. A short drive away sits Bula Coffee, one of Fiji's most picturesque roasteries, set beside an aquamarine lagoon beneath swaying palms. The nutty aroma of roasting beans fills the air as guests relax on a breezy verandah overlooking the water.

Even for a four-coffee-a-day addict like me, the Crop to Cup tour offers surprises. I see robusta and arabica trees heavy with red cherries, two-inch seedlings pushing through the soil and beans drying under the fierce Fijian sun. The highlight is the delicate, jasmine-like fragrance of a coffee flower in bloom.

The business began when its founder noticed coffee growing wild in Fiji's highlands. Today, the company supplies seedlings to 38 villages. Farmers harvest the berries after three years and sell them back to the roastery, providing income for more than 5000 people.

My tour ends with a cold-drip coffee over ice and chocolate-covered beans straight from the fridge. Nearby, a small batch of cacao beans dries in the sun; the farm's next experiment.

While coffee may be a newer crop in Fiji, sugar cane has long been the backbone of the country's agricultural economy. More than 22,000 growers depend on the cash crop across Viti Levu and Vanua Levu.

Eager to learn more, I joined an e-bike tour along Fiji's Sugar Cane Trail with IBike Fiji. Departing from Bulaccino Farm in Nadi's back hills, the ride offers a glimpse of everyday life beyond the airport and resorts: farms and army barracks, schoolyards filled with waving children and homes shaded by fruit trees.

In Nadi town, my exposure to sugar cane has mostly been trucks heaving with cut stalks clogging traffic. Out here, we see the crop at every stage: towering green fields, paddocks ablaze with controlled burns and workers stacking charred cane onto tractor trailers bound for the refinery.

Despite the rough back roads, the e-bikes make the ride surprisingly easy. Uphill climbs feel effortless, while the downhill runs offer a rush of adrenaline. The only traffic is a man on horseback chatting on his phone. When my bike chain snaps, he stops to help locate the missing pin, before we continue on our respective steads.

We stop in a small foothill village, wheeling our bikes past washing lines and dodging chickens before settling on a bench in the shade. My guides' cousins bring out fresh pineapple while two toddlers clamber curiously over our bikes.

It's the sort of moment that never appears in a resort brochure, and precisely why I came.

Talanoa means story, and the story of Nabutautau has shaped Fiji's history. It was here that missionary Reverend Thomas Baker and five companions were killed in 1867, an event that left the village burdened with shame for generations. Today, however, Nabutautau has become known for something very different: community-led tourism.

We set off early, wading through waist-deep rivers, scrambling over boulders and abseiling down a short rocky drop before reaching a series of stone ruins near a bend in the river. This was the original village, abandoned after a devastating measles epidemic in 1875 that killed more than 20 per cent of Fiji's population. Many believed the tragedy was a curse linked to Baker's death.

Without the guides sharing their talanoa, it would be easy to miss the ruins, and even harder to understand the significance of what happened here. They point out the defensive layout of the village, the stone mounds where houses once stood, and a small cave where victims of the epidemic were buried. Beckoned closer, I peer inside the cave and catch my breath: a small white skull rests in the shadows.

The story is sombre, but the trek now plays an important role in the village's future. After a long climb we arrive in Nabutautau, where locals greet us with a cheerful chorus of "Bula!" from their doorways. We've arrived just before the wet season, on the final trek of the year. The village is preparing for its annual celebration, a reunion that brings extended families home as a fundraiser for community projects.

When we return to the village after the morning's trek to a natural waterslide, everyone is dressed for the celebration: women in colourful sulu jaba with flowers tucked behind their ears, while men in crisp shirts gather to mix and share kava. We pack our bags to leave, but the village insists on one more bowl - which quickly turns into singing and dancing.

For years, I'd avoided trekking in Fiji's highlands. It had sounded hot, humid and hard. It was all those things, but worth every moment. After a dozen trips to Fiji, it's the experience I value the most.

The writer travelled with the assistance of the Duavata Collective and Tourism Fiji