When we hit asphalt, I pulled my Blackberry out so fast, I nearly elbowed the girl next to me. One week without internet made Lindsay an anxious girl. How sad. But once we boarded the bus to Lautoka in the city, I peeled myself away from Facebook notifications and Twitter updates to hang with Abel in the back, listening to my iPod and his favorite song on repeat (“My Heart Will Go On” by Celine Dion…seriously). The speed bumps sent us flying into the air and crashing down with a back crack and big laughter. The open windows threw my hair around in a frenzy. And the views never let up from being awe-inspiring.

After a week of sharing kava bowls and receiving a rough nutritional spread, I acquired my first WTI travel bug…and not the good kind. I didn’t feel much like hitting the bar hard with the other travelers; instead Abel invited me to hang with him at his brother’s house in the city (since Abel came back with us to work for his future school fees for two months).

Brother Elia’s house shook from the little pounding feet of two children, Kenny and Faresa, both male, cheeky, and energy-packed. While dinner cooked in the kitchen, I received playful slaps from the two-year-old, Kenny, that got me right in the kisser. He had a face smeared with his earlier dinner and a laugh that meant mischief and ulterior motives. He was, in a word…hilarious.

Abel and I ate together a meal of noodle soup, village taro, and pig skin, and because of my subtle uncertainty with devouring slippery, jiggly pig, Abel sensed I was disgusted and began to beat himself up. He spoke only one or two words during dinner and nearly cried for being a bad host. I felt awful that I couldn’t scoop the pig skin into my mouth feverishly, which would have been the only thing that would ease his worries, but I reassured him over and over that I loved the meal…I was just not as hungry as he was.

Those from the villages in Fiji have such an innate desire to care for you, and when Abel thought I wasn’t receiving a meal up to my normal standards of apparently royal feasts, he grew upset with himself. Had he only known how happy I was to still be soaking up village culture and company, he wouldn’t have felt so sad.

The long meal drew to an end, and Abel went outside with his brother to pound some fresh kava for a small savusavu, or welcoming ceremony into the new household. Meanwhile, I created games that broke through the firm language barrier by making sounds with my mouth, creating rhythms of slaps and punches in the air to be repeated, mainly just doing anything that would entertain two kids who would quickly turn to violence if bored.

Abel and Elia welcomed me into their Lautoka home, and after a few bowls, I lounged by the mother of the household to gab about the boys. Her abilities to predict their next moves and behaviors was stunning.

“Next they are going to play a slow love song and start blinking for longer periods of time. That’s the difference between men and women kava drinkers: we throw on the party tunes and gab while the men want to wallow in sweet songs and fall asleep. We’re more fun.”

As the rest of the Madventures group was bouncing around Ed’s Bar, I was glad to know I was still connected with the village I just left behind. It made sense to be there. It was yet another moment I cherished in the moment and beyond.

I took it fairly easy during the day with a writing session and a swim at the waterfall, and when lunchtime finished, I leaned to my side and suddenly passed out cold, as if I had really done any real labor that day. I awoke to a bunch of ladies weaving fern mats around me and giggling as little Pio, my host cousin, took photos of my groggy state.

During my waterfall adventure and delicious nap, my host parents constructed a lovo, or underground oven with firewood, stones to be heated, coconut shells holding various foods, and banana leaves to cover the entire situation. The grub finished with an aromatic uncovering in the dark of evening. I got dressed in one of my host family’s grand sulus and a flowery lei, and we all walked with food in hands to the party down the path at Chris’ house.

A tablecloth stretched the length of the room on the floor, with plates scattered at intervals of various noodles, taro, and lovo goodies. We joined the men watching rugby on the TV (Chris’ house was pretty set up) until Moji announced our turn to thank the village formally for the entire week.

“I just want to thank all of you for being a part of this experience. I want to thank my lei and my nau and my new friend and sister, Bui, for their hospitality. I had so much fun doing everything and nothing with you. From the kava sessions to just hanging out, it was incredibly fulfilling. I know you all just be aware of how lucky you are, to live amidst such a wonderful landscape and among such wonderful people. I have to make it back here, THIS YEAR!”

That was the gist of my announcement. Words of appreciation and love exchanged among everyone and clapping commenced after everyone’s speeches. And then we went to business on the food for a couple hours.

With two dollars in my hand, I walked in the dark behind Fane to a private area in the village, an open air building where fundraising dances took place. As the pop/island music blasted into the quiet night, we shimmied our leis and sulus, kicking up the dusty soil into a fog. Chris would spontaneously whip out his Ace Ventura dance moves, while I would be challenged by the village ladies to ask multiple men to dance (using my new line “Au nakwati e koko daro danisi” or “I want you to dance with me”). Traveler Tom had moves that would stop Michael Jackson in his tracks, and the entire house was shaking with laughter and hilarity.

Most of the men sat on one side of the building drinking kava and occasionally looked to see what all the fuss was about on the dance floor. It resembled a middle school dance in a sense. My feet were the color of milk chocolate by the dance’s end and my body limp from exhaustion. The next morning we would leave, and I couldn’t have imagined a better way to bid it adieu…dancing to Akon.