Failed tough guy in Fiji

Naevo is a former soldier who played for Fiji in the last two rugby World Cups. Now retired, he acts as a Fijian village guide who tries to transform testosterone-deprived tourists into real men.

As we climbed into his big, biffabout Ford Ranger pick-up and headed for the village of Rawaqa in the hills above the capital, Suva, the 6ft6in village chief explained that every Fijian man had to go through a series of initiation rites before he could attain the prized status of warrior.

There was bilibili rafting, fishing (spear, coconut leaf trap and hand-line), coconut tree climbing, a drinking ceremony, the meke wesi men’s spear dance, and, most alarming of all, fire walking.

My ascent of Man Mountain began at dawn the next morning - in disastrous fashion. “First, you have to dress like a Fijian man,” said Naevo. He reached into his bag and wrapped a blue sulu around my waist. “A skirt?” I protested. “No, it’s a sulu.”

“Where I come from this is a skirt.” “It’s a sulu.” “Well, it looks to me like something that is worn by women and men who, you know, would rather be women.”

A word of advice if you ever find yourself nose to chest with a Fijian warrior: don’t be rude about his sulu. Naevo picked me up with one hand and eyed the dirty brown waters of the Navua river, just yards away. “They shot the movie Anaconda in there because it’s full of pythons,” he said.

“Fancy a dip?” After that, if he had told me an acid-yellow cashmere codpiece with matching cape was national dress, I would have worn it. With pride.

In LA, chisel-jawed crimpers wield hot towels and glinting razors to create just the right designer stubble. “We use a machete around here,” announced Naevo as he pulled me from the river and grabbed me in a headlock. He hacked away at my Aveda-nourished, vitamin-supplemented skin as if he were husking a coconut, until I was bloodied and bowed.

My first task was building a raft. Bamboo may look easy to cut, but its bark is as tough as steel. After an hour, all I had to show for my sweat-soaked sulu were blisters and a pile of twigs and leaves. In the same time, Neavo had hacked down a Black Forest-worth of timber and lashed the biggest trunks together with creepers into a raft. But I soon redeemed myself on the water. Luckily for me, Naevo had never heard of punting.

“Now we fish,” he announced. The water in the Suva river was so dirty spear fishing was impossible, my coconut leaf trap dissolved in seconds and I didn’t get a single bite on the handline. After two hours that seemed like two months, Naevo asked: “Are you a vegetarian?”

There may have been no fish, but there was food on the shore - if only I could reach it. Coconut trees may look good in pictures, but have you ever tried to climb one? Thought not. There is a good reason. The bark is as sharp as shards of glass and if it rains, it’s impossible to get a foothold. I was halfway up when the heavens opened and I found I could go no further up - or get down.

“Grip with your thighs,” Naevo shouted. “It’s all in the legs.” I still couldn’t move, but now I looked like I was humping the tree. I knew that “getting wood” was supposed to be masculine, but this was ridiculous. Naevo finally took pity on me and lifted me down. I felt as macho as a Bounty Bar.

Something had to go right soon. Hadn’t it? “Now it’s time for Kava,” Naevo said. Had I heard him right? Had Spanish fizz made it to the south Pacific? This was one task for which I was certainly well-qualified. Bring on the bubbles!

Kava, it turned out, was a Fijian root, which is ground up and mixed with water to create what looks - and tastes - like a milky puddle. I did my best to suppress my disappointment at the aperitif, which was followed by a traditional magiti lunch feast, with fish, chicken, tomatoes and taro - a kind of spinach.

It was magiti dance night. In Fiji, dancing is not for girls, it’s for men. The meke wesi spear routine is a kind of Fijian haka - all shouting, stamping, charging and spearing. I threw my most menacing shapes and snarled at the villagers watching my performance. I’m not an expert in Fijian hand gestures, but I think what they were trying to say is: “Are you doing panto this year?”

I had one more chance to reclaim my virility. “Warriors feel no pain when they fire walk,” said Naevo as he dragged the burning logs and palm leafs off the stones that had been smouldering all day in preparation for the ritual. “They are protected by the elf spirits.”

Naevo was the first to go and he inched slowly over the white-hot rocks to the cool grass, without flinching. I was next. I couldn’t channel my inner elf but I knew those Ralph Lauren flip flops I’d bought on Rodeo Drive a few days earlier would eventually be worth the outrageous price tag. After a few steps the shoes were toast. But I, thankfully, wasn’t.

The tangerine sun was setting over the Pacific now, marking the end of my 12 hours of ritual humiliation. What was Naevo’s verdict? Was I caveman - or still quicheman? Naevo looked to history for guidance.

“In the old days, we used to eat white fellas and make soup with their bones. We called the ships they arrived on HMS No Come Back.” He paused before passing sentence. “You will not make a Fijian man... but you’d make a good meal for one.”

Need to know

Air New Zealand (0800 0284149, www.airnewzealand.co.uk) flies daily from Heathrow to Los Angeles, with connections seven times a week to Fiji from £928 return.

For a Warrior tour, book a Feejee Experience Hula Loop pass (www.feejeeexperience.com) from £145pp. For cultural tours and shows, see www.artsvillage.com.

Further information Fiji Tourist Board (0800 652 2158, www.fijime.com)