Galoa, not exactly the kind of place you’d find in a travel brochure or on a tourism map.
But for us as kids, it was pure magic, a hidden haven tucked away in Fiji’s lush heartland not far from Deuba. It wasn’t just a destination; it was our home away from home. And every school holiday, it was the place we longed for with all our hearts.
Our mother’s side of the family owned a modest dairy farm right beside the Galoa River. It was simple, hardworking country – unpolished, raw, and real.
To get there from the main road, we’d take a winding, bumpy dirt track that seemed to go on forever. By the time we arrived, our teeth would be rattling and our bodies sore from the jolting ride.
But the moment we stepped out of the car and breathed in that earthy, river-scented fresh country air, the pain and discomfort vanished like morning mist in the sun.
The excitement of arriving never got old. We’d change into our farm clothes faster than you could say “mosquito,” ready to embrace every scratch, splash, and adventure that lay ahead.
The heart of the farm housed a true Fijian bure complete with a thatched roof, a dirt floor, and an open fireplace made of “mud” crackling away at one end.
There were no electric appliances because there was no electric power and no modern conveniences. We ate all our meals sitting on the floor on a thick Fijian mat using our hands from an old enamel tin plate. And we drank tea made in an old charred kettle using a big enamel pyala.
Kerosene lamps and torches lit up the nights, and the toilet was an outhouse far from the main buildings. The river was our bathroom — cool, cleansing and filled with laughter when we got together for our late afternoon shower.
And even that was a whole lot of fun as we splashed each other while soaping our bodies washing away the dirt, the scrapes and scratches that stung a bit reminding us of the frolicking fun we’d experienced that day.
Perhaps our greatest joy was in the water. The Galoa River was more than just a river; it was a playground, a source of life, and a friend.
A long wooden punt with a weathered outboard motor sat tied to the riverbank, always ready for our next fishing expedition.
One of our favourite adventures was to trek upriver to a dense bamboo forest, chop down tall bamboo stalks — some eight to ten feet long — and then lash them together with vines to build our own rafts.
Then we’d float all the way back home, pretending we were explorers navigating wild, uncharted waters.
And the fishing — oh, the fishing! Some days we’d catch slippery river prawns in the shallow up stream using handmade nets. We’d bring them back wriggling in buckets, then watch as they were transformed into sizzling prawn curry, bubbling in pots over an open fire.
Served with hot, freshly made roti on a tawa (iron plate) over the open fire was out of this world. Each bite was a slice of heaven. Every meal tasted like a celebration of nature, of simplicity, of love far away from the bright lights of Suva.
The milk was unlike anything in the city — fresh, thick and creamy, and still warm from hand milking the cow. If the world today is chasing after organic lifestyles, Galoa had it in abundance, long before the term became fashionable.
But it wasn’t just the food or the river that made it unforgettable — it was the people. My uncle, for instance, was somewhat of a local legend.
Known far and wide as a fearless wild pig hunter, he was every bit the Fijian cowboy.
Shirtless, in just his shorts and what looked like strange riding boots, he’d ride his horse bareback like something straight out of a Western movie – lean, sun-bronzed, and utterly fearless.
And if you knew the Singh’s of Galoa, that’s exactly how they were — nothing could ruffle their feathers. They were sturdy no-nonsense country folk, people of the land.
There’s one story about him that’s grown into family folklore. They say he was once ambushed in the bush by a massive wild boar with tusks like daggers.
Armed with nothing but a cane knife and his courage, he fought the beast and won. Whether the tale is entirely true or embroidered and embellished by generations of awe-struck kids around the fire, it doesn’t matter. It was part of the myth, the legend, the heartbeat of the pig fighting hero of Galoa.
Looking back now, those days shine like polished pearls even in the cobwebs of my memory cabinet.
We didn’t know it at the time, but we were living something rare and pristinely beautiful — a life rich in connection, freedom, and joy. Galoa taught us the value of the simple pleasures of life, the strength of family, and the beauty of nature unspoiled. Oh, how I long for that time of innocent wonder and beauty.
It may never be a tourist hotspot. But to us, Galoa will always be our secret little paradise – home of our family’s legendary wild pig hunting hero.
- Colin Deoki is a regular contributor to The Sunday Times. the views expressed herein are his and not of this newspaper.
