8Laden with my pack and tent I plonk myself down on a broken bus seat. The bus rattles out of town and through the outlying villages – rusting corrugated iron houses painted dirty pinks and yellows, swept earth yards with chickens, dogs and children running free under large breadfruit and mango trees. A few plastered and tiled posh houses hide behind locked iron gates. I’m on my way to a tourist hideaway next to Colo-i-Suva, the national forest park. The bus drops me on a winding road, wild jungle all around, overcast sky above, my destination around the next bend – I hope.
‘Yes, you can pitch a tent by the lake. It does rain a lot and it gets cold at night. Enjoy your stay.’
The small lake is a greeny-brown soup of mud and algae. I unclip my tent and shake it out. Where are they? I sear
