After a fabulous scuba diving trip off the island of Kadavu, a taxi delivered me to Semo village from the airport. Having anticipated my arrival, children came pouring from the homes. I dropped my bags just as my arms filled with the bodies of enthusiastic children endeavoring to capture my attention.

A parade followed me to Joana’s home where I was surprised to find Lewa bedridden, her leg bandaged from a broken bone she suffered during my absence. Unable to afford proper medical care, this 50-year old woman’s leg was put back in place by several men and then wrapped with a meager cloth. She suffered from excruciating pain but showed little sign of discomfort as she welcomed me back to Semo. Lewa raised herself onto a homemade crutch and struggled into the home’s common area, determined to prepare lunch for me. Despite my insistent pleading, my Fijian mother labored through the intense pain of a broken bone to fix me a meal.

After lunch Lewa provided me with the clothes needed for church. Tevita, my brother, dressed me in a traditional blue sulu, white shirt and a blue tie. Lewa presented me with a King James Bible and asked that I go to church “as part of her family.” As I entered the village’s Methodist Church with Tevita and our younger brother Maccha, the entire congregation rotated in their pews to view the approaching spectacle. With Maccha’s hand clasped in mine and Tevita walking by my side, I joined the church as a member of the Nailesu family. The pastor began his sermon with a special welcoming. Thanking me for joining the service, he hoped that I would comprehend the message despite its being in Fijian. Through almost two hours of passionate, uninterrupted sermon, I struggled to stay attentive knowing that every eye in the room was fixed directly on me.

In conclusion to the service, the youth choir prepared to deliver a hymn to the fervent audience. The pastor asked that I join the rehearsal in a neighboring home. I listened attentively to the Fijian words and when time came for our big performance, I stood proudly at the back of the group and attempted to mimic the choir’s hymn. When I began to sing the chorus confidently, I caused the congregation to break into shrieks of laughter. Departing Semo’s Methodist Church, I found the congregation in a line, each awaiting their chance to shake hands with their American visitor.

With all that had occurred in just three weeks, leaving Fiji was more emotional than leaving home. As word spread among the local villages that my time for departure had arrived, friends and family came to join me in a ceremony to celebrate my farewell. When the last dinner was finished, villagers began to file into Joana’s home. Soon there was hardly any space left on the floor.

The ceremony began as Tevita prepared the kava. Instruments were brought out and as bowls of kava were passed around, so was the guitar. The men of the local villages took turns leading the group in song. I sat and listened, my eyes intently fixed on those that looked back at me. When each song was completed, I was given a brief explanation of its meaning, followed by a dedication of sorts. I lost count how many dedications were bestowed upon me that night. It seemed that each time a song was completed the guitar was passed along and a new dedication made before the singing continued.

Hearing the Fijians sing, I was immediately consumed with delight. The people of Fiji have been granted such beautiful voices as if one is beholding a chorus of angels. Though the language was foreign, the meaning was as clear as night and day. Their sentiment found words through song and I was mesmerized as their beauty of expression overwhelmed me. Gazing into their eyes as they sang, I felt as if we all might break into tears. Especially when the young men sang, I felt a common language pass between us. I understood their joy and sadness as if I comprehended the words that echoed in song.

I had promised to delay my departure until the children arrived home from school. After lunch my final bowl of kava was prepared. My friends arrived one by one, many of them bearing gifts. I was soon surrounded by my closest friends in Semo. Nita, my aunt, did not speak English so we had only communicated through smiles and gestures which made here gift of a beautiful new sulu, or sarong, so special. Her daughter explained that Nita was very old and would likely be gone when I visited Semo again so she wanted me to have something by which to remember her. Hugging the elderly woman and hearing her giggle under my embrace, I felt a tinge of sadness knowing this would most likely be our last day together.

Miliana, my Fijian sister, was the next to offer a gift. I unwrapped the paper to find a small souvenir canoe, engraved with the word “Fiji.” The canoe was a familiar sight at tourist shops fetching several dollars for its basic design. I looked upon my sister with a mix of gratitude and hesitation. This is a family who could hardly afford sugar and diapers, yet their little bit of income had been spent on my gift. This is the type of unhindered generosity that impressed me so much about the Fijian people.

I could hear the cries of the children coming from afar as tiny legs carried the lively bodies closer to our farewell ceremony. The open door suddenly swelled shut as multiple children attempted to squeeze through the entranceway. Soon there was an assembly of young smiling faces at my feet and a final gift before me. I unwrapped the package to find three more sulus. “For your parents and your brother,” the children informed me. My gaze fell upon the big brown eyes of the children that brimmed with tears of glee and sadness. I held in my hands three new sulus that valued over thirty dollars. I looked upon the children’s parents who had no doubt provided them with the money to purchase the traditional clothing. In my heart I struggled to accept this prize, questioning my worth for such an exceptional gift, and attempting to supply the appropriate gratitude.

As the ceremony continued, another bowl of kava was prepared and my friend Iso arrived with a guitar. The atmosphere of the room was unlike any other gathering. The happiest people I have ever known were fighting looming sadness. I sat and listened to each song as I studied the faces of the family. Noticing a profound change, I realized how truly hard this goodbye was for them. My unexpected arrival had brought a new and wonderful light to the village and I could see that they felt that light was fading. I tried to smile reassuringly, but the sadness in my eyes spoke my true emotion. Looking back I don’t know how I suppressed a flood of tears during the farewell song.

I had heard the farewell song several times after three weeks in Fiji. Each time the song impressed me with its stirring chorus, poignant verses and infectious emotion. Though the words were Fijian, I felt a deeper understanding for them this time. I looked around the room full of family and friends and listened as the song resonated against the room’s concrete walls. My eyes fell upon each face in the room. As the tears began to fall like monsoon rains, I realized that I had come to Semo as a stranger, but I was leaving as family.

Fiji was like a dream for me. My experience not only exceeded my expectations; it filled my heart with love and brought about a wonderful change within me. My time in the islands was nothing short of a miracle. I was blessed each day with the magic of beauty and simple, genuine people. I had found a home on the other side of the world and experienced the unconditional kindness of strangers. Fiji was just the first stop on a six-month journey through the South Pacific, but it was the experience of a lifetime.