Why Does Everyone Leave This Island Sobbing?

Pack a handkerchief along with your swimsuit when visiting this Fijian paradise.

As we stumbled out of a helicopter, careful to bow our heads for fear the blades would lop them off, a grandmother hobbled toward us.

She locked her glassy eyes on my wife and then lurched forward–wrapping her in an embrace. With a wobbly voice, the grandmother quavered, “You’ll be so, so happy here.” Although she hardly looked happy herself.

Then she latched herself onto me, hugging me close as her true weeping began. I felt the tears on my face as she sobbed. “Enjoy your time,” she whimpered. It was meant as advice, though it sounded like a warning.

The pilot tossed the grandmother’s luggage into the helicopter’s hold, along with the bags of her family who joined her in departure. We were here to replace them as guests on Turtle Island. 

My wife and I exchanged confused, almost worried glances. 

“What is happening?” my wife asked.

“What the hell is going on in this place?” I wondered. “What happened to those people?”

Before arriving, I’d been told by others who had visited this remote private island of its emotional qualities. They said: People often leave there crying… It’s very moving… You’ll cry, too… I was determined to not let that happen.

‘Welcome Home, Family’

We’d come to Turtle Island, an all-inclusive resort in Fiji promising the finest in barefoot luxury, for a week of escapist relaxation. When I filled out our preference sheets ahead of our arrival, I asked for champagne, gin, and private beaches. Nowhere had I indicated a yearning for emotional meltdowns. I’m not a believer in eat-pray-love vacations. And though first glances provided otherworldly beauty–a lush, tropical forest bobbing on a cornflower-blue-shaded sea–it gave me no evidence to support blubbering.

Turtle Island’s origin story wasn’t particularly heartstring-tugging either. A divorced 37-year-old alcoholic millionaire suffering from what some might deem an early-onset, middle-age crisis, Richard Evanson touched down on what was then called Nanuya Levu on October 16, 1972, with a refrigerator stocked only with beer and a generator to power it. 

At that time, this was an empty, barren landmass without vegetation or electricity; it had been decimated by generations of Englishmen herding hungry goats. Evanson had paid $100,000 for it, one of several lonely rocks in Fiji’s Yasawa Archipelago. Whatever verdure the goats didn’t eat, tropical storms ripped from the earth. Now he sought to rehabilitate it. Though potentially delusional, he wasn’t inept–he had an engineering degree from the University of Washington and an MBA from Harvard.

Along with two other nearby islands, Nanuya Levu wraps around the calm waters of Fiji’s Blue Lagoon. Just after a helicopter plunked Evanson down, a canoe slid across that lagoon, rowed by a 17-year-old from the village of Matacawalevu named Joe Naisali.

Naisali wanted a closer look at the chopper but instead got a job offer from Evanson. Together, they built a small shelter next to a massive banyan tree and began the Herculean work of cleaning up the island. Then came Cyclone Bebe. 

The winds blew at 180 miles per hour and knocked the shelter away and the banyan over. While in the eye of the storm, Naisali tied himself and Evanson to the fallen tree. They withstood hours under the lashing forces, and when it finally subsided, they went back to work.

1. A view of Turtle Island from the Blue Lagoon.Holly Rogers 2. Richard Evanson planted more than 500,000 trees to replace what goats had eaten.

The dense wilderness we motored through in the backseat of a golf cart was nothing like the description of this island’s earlier era. Conveyed from our landing site, we bumped along a winding dirt road through an enveloping jungle to what I could only plausibly describe as a town square.

A white-sanded courtyard, freshly raked, was surrounded by various single-story structures, some tinned-roofed, others thatched. A replacement banyan tree stood sentinel. A dozen people, all of whom worked here, sang a hauntingly lovely melody a cappella, while one after the other, they each hugged us so tightly, so genuinely, so familiarly, I pushed aside my usual aversion to being touched by strangers.

The man who chauffeured us here, Erami Ravato, said in a baritone voice: “Welcome home, family.”

Family? Membership in my family requires decades of intense psychotherapy and a steady diet of statins. It seemed unlikely anyone in this paradise would want to join my family. Though maybe we’d like to join theirs.

A Smile Only a Family Could Love

While questioning my allegiance to my ancestors, someone asked us to smile. A Pavlovian grin obediently stretched across my face. Someone snapped our photo.

“Wait–what’s that for?” I asked. 

“So everyone knows who you are,” someone replied.

The thought of everyone–guests, staff, anyone who might pass by whatever bulletin board on which they planned to pin it–all of them staring at that photograph of my buffoon expression and bloodshot eyes–it absolutely mortified the most vainglorious parts of me.

“No one will see it,” my wife soothingly said. “And if they do, no one will care.”

There were few people who would see it, after all. The island never has more than 14 couples at a time. (Although there’s a guest-to-staff ratio of roughly one-to-four.) Each couple is assigned what the resort calls a bure mama, or bure papa–what other hotels might call a butler. Ours was Tokasa Kenona, and she ushered us across a long, pristine beach–a screensaver photo idyll dotted with coconut and pine trees–to our charming bure, the Fijian word for cabin.

Turtle Island’s journey from a deserted Nanuya Levu to this lush resort began shortly after Cyclone Bebe. The 17-year-old Naisali introduced Evanson to his village chief, Ratu Tevita, who permitted the American to hire 20 men to assist him. They built a simple house near a well spring, in which Evanson would live for six years, the first four without electricity. But modern conveniences weren’t his primary concern–he focused instead on reforestation and the cessation of land erosion.

Only 15% of the 500 acres had tree cover. So, at great expense, they planted 250,000 pine trees and 300,000 tropical saplings. Another 6,000 coconut trees were installed on the beaches. 

Then Evanson put his engineering degree to good use and constructed a dam for a freshwater wetland, which soon attracted waterfowl; he relocated boulders to the shoreline, barriers against violent waves; and installed recycling and waste systems as well as an entire electrical grid.

The first bures went up in 1978 to house distant friends who wanted a peek at their eccentric pal’s Gilligan’s Island lifestyle. Perhaps Evanson enjoyed playing host, or maybe he simply missed the company of Americans, but in 1979, he decided to turn his island into a resort.

The original footprint of our bure, number two, dated back to the beginning, though has had multiple upgrades since. It is luxurious without the added razzle-dazzle polish that some might expect in a five-star resort. But ultimately, it is inviting–less like a hotel, and more like a home.

As we settled in, our bure mama Tokasa asked a torrent of questions about our lives–and we began asking about hers. Our conversations rolled along naturally. In the days that followed, she’d often sit with us on our daybed as we each spoke of our lives and families. She’d been here for more than 20 years, and her daughter also worked on the island–which was not an uncommon occurrence. Many of the Turtle Island “family” are quite literally family, and several had even met their spouses here.

1. Turtle Island’s town square. A banyan tree stands near the site of the one that Cyclone Bebe blew down.Holly Rogers 2. One of the many buildings in Turtle Island’s working village.

Erami Ravato, who had first welcomed us in his golf cart, had been here longer than most–30 years; he seemed to play the role of leader, majordomo, friend, and guide. When I asked him what his actual title was, he told me only, “I make sure guests have fun.”

On our first full day, we toured the island with him. The town square was surrounded by a working village. A farm provided the produce, dairy, and meat; a joinery the furniture and handicrafts; a fuel depot the power; a dental clinic dentistry; a church divinity; and a chief’s bure government function. Dormitories and housing for the staff provide homes for six weeks at a time, after which everyone takes two weeks off.

As we meandered along, those who lived and worked here stopped briefly to wave and shout, “Bula, Jeremy!” The farmers shouted, “Bula, Jeremy!” The woodworkers shouted, “Bula, Jeremy!” The mechanics shouted, “Bula, Jeremy!” It all seemed so uncannily Disney–a Fijian reenactment of “Bonjour, Belle!” and here I was playing Belle.

I asked: “How does everyone know our names?” 

“From your photo.”

“They showed everyone that photo?”

“Yes, that’s right. They particularly love your photo, Jeremy. It makes everyone laugh.”

Family Style Dinner

My portrait hung in the dining room on a wooden board under the banner of “Bure 2.” All the other guests’ photos were there, too, along with their first names and bure numbers–collectively, we looked like drunk convicts in wanted posters tacked onto a police station bulletin board.

I glanced at the others. I’d arrived with a preconceived profile of the type of guest who might fork over $3,000 a night (with a five-night minimum) for this tropical escape: the White Lotus doyenne traipsing along the sand in Louboutin heels and Cartier diamonds who’s married either to geriatric aristocracy or a Patagonia puffer-vested tech bro who’s actively prepping for the singularity.

Remarkably, however, they all seemed unremarkably normal. A California couple celebrating a delayed anniversary; another California couple who had been here several times before, and who now brought along their adult daughters; two friends from New Zealand; a semi-retired military couple, currently stationed in Japan; honeymooners from Washington; another honeymooning couple, this one from New Jersey.

When Richard Evanson decided not only to live on this island but to open his paradise to others, he might have been doing so to please his ego–most island procurers have an ego in want of stroking (see: Larry Ellison, John Hammond, Dr. Moreau). He seemed to view it as a curated dinner party–no more than 14 couples, the perfect amount for a lively conversation–in which he would join and play host.

Though devised more than four decades ago, the rubric continues now. Although several private dinners are organized in romantic settings throughout the stay, it’s common to join meals at one long, communal table accommodating both guests and staff.

But not everyone seemed entirely content with this arrangement. A few nights into our stay, two doubtful guests arrived. They came from the land down under, he with shock white hair, and she with a suitcase crammed with high-heels, leather pants, and a fur coat. Her constantly impeccable make-up led one to believe that she may have even packed away a glam squad. They seemed ill-prepared for barefoot luxury. 

Until the kava.

It seems imperative that anyone traveling to Fiji—or many of the South Pacific island nations—have some understanding of kava. It is a cocktail, of sorts, embodying religion, tradition, and narcotics. It originates in a pepper tree called Piper methysticum; it is mashed, pulverized, and powderized into a tradable good, which swings across islands like a regional currency. When approaching some villages, it’s necessary to bring a requisite offering of kava. The kava is then mixed with water and, like a eucharist, embodies some amount of spirituality that I’m ill-equipped to explain. But the end result is a muddy drink that, to some, numbs the tongue and, to others, helps them experience the universe. It does not taste very nice.

Every night except Sunday, Turtle Island hosts a traditional kava ceremony, in which everyone–guests and staff alike–gather around the tatami-mat-covered sand to drink bowls of this brew. A different department hosts each night—the maintenance staff on Saturday, food and beverages on Monday, and so forth. And so we collectively sat barefooted with everyone else on the island to quaff brim-filled coconut shells of this happy juice.

The guestlist for this island has been long and impressive, from movie stars to moguls, and while at kava, all are leveled to people. Status vanishes, the outside world disintegrates, souls commune for a brief, illuminated moment in time. This simple, beautiful tradition softens even the most cynical minds; it melts away pretense and snobbery. It wraps hearts in gooey emotions, and tickles tear ducts.

I know this to be true–because I witnessed it. I felt it. Cue the Australian couple.

Though initially withheld, seemingly removing themselves from this communal, congregational spirit, by their second night, they’d kicked off their Ferragamos and sat in the dirt with us all, sipping murky liquid. I couldn’t tell you why they did it–curiosity, boredom, frivolity, or something else entirely–but soon, they sat together with the rest of the island as we forewent our pasts and even our presents, and lived in a harmonious utopia. 

Somehow, everyone who existed on that island, each and every one of us, we’d all converged into one large, happy family.

Our Growing Family

A cat mewed at our bure only hours after our arrival. I’ve learned in many years of traveling never to feed a stray—it only brings attachment, heartache, and an unsustainable reality for the poor thing. Still, we fed him.

Our bure mama Tokasa had stocked our refrigerator with the necessities: fruit, milk, Moet & Chandon. We gave the cat the milk. He was a young, orange tabby with a sweet meow and gentle manner. I fell in love.

“The people in this bure had children,” Tokasa said. “They fed him.”

Although Turtle Island is adults-only, for roughly six weeks a year–mid-June to mid-July, and over the Christmas holidays–children are permitted. The family left, but their stray stuck around. We dubbed him Conan in honor of his ginger coat.

Conan’s ouroboros body curled into any crevice available, and that first evening, he made himself comfortable in my lap—I feared moving for shaking him awake, but sometime around twilight, he woke and slinked off. He always left at dusk.

Throughout our week, we descended into a routine of sorts. Conan came and went at set hours—usually early mornings and late afternoons. Though occasionally, he appeared outside past midnight, meowed, and we’d let him in. Once, I even waited up for him, fretting over his whereabouts, like the father of a teenager out past curfew.

My wife grew concerned for me, and I could tell that Tokasa did, too. Especially once I started ordering bacon every morning for breakfast, putting it into a cloth napkin, and sneaking it off to the bure.

Bill Mualele, typically referred to as “Uncle Bill,” is the guest services manager at Turtle Island. A gentleman with a striking expression and a languid voice who’s worked here for 18 years, he told me that an isthmus connects Turtle Island to the next island over, Nanuya Lailai, and during low-tide, animals from the village there meander over and become trapped come high tide. The Turtle Island residents used to herd the cats back to Nanuya Lailai, but soon, the population of mice increased—so they enacted a lenient policy of convenience.

While on vacation, it’s easy enough for one to delude themselves into believing they are not tourists but residents. Here, I lived in a bure with my wife and cat—we went out daily and discussed the weather, the tides, the gossip with all the locals. We fed and petted the cat. At night, we sat communally and sipped kava. We slept soundly. 

I even started attending church. 

A Church-Going Family Man 

The church sits centrally located on the island, close to the town square. Folding chairs are arranged as pews, fans whirl overhead, and stained-glass turtles sparkle in the windows.

I cannot say exactly what compelled me, a Jew, to attend the island’s Methodist service, as it’s certainly not mandatory. But it seemed to me appropriate to attend a communal gathering, especially as, by this point, I’d started to wonder if we really might be part of the community. Maybe we were “family,” after all. And if my family went to church, then I figured I ought to join them.

Venina Ualokaloka, whom I’d met before at kava ceremonies and who works in housekeeping, patted a chair and invited me to sit with her at the Sunday evening service. The pews were well attended by the staff, as well as some guests. Erami Ravato, the leader, majordomo, friend, and guide, now added priest to his resume. He stood at the pulpit. He apologized that he’d be sermonizing in Fijian and then continued in words that I couldn’t comprehend. Venina handed me a hymnal when the time called for it and pointed to the appropriate page. 

We sang together: “Tau vei au, tau vei au, ni lewa me tau vei au.”

Those angelic voices–those same ones that welcomed us to this island–I heard them now, all around me. As gloriously beautiful as the Mormon Tabernacle, they shook the room with a choral earthquake.

Those voices, whether singing Christian hymns in church or traditional songs around the island, provided a mesmerizing, haunting soundtrack. Often joyful, as they were in church, but sometimes mournful, especially upon guest departure.

As the days ticked by, I heard more of those departure dirges. Photos fell from the board in the dining room–another couple had gone away. New photos went up, and I’d hear the happy, welcome song. The old guests–our old family–would leave, and new ones would be welcomed home to replace them–our new family.

Everyone preparing to leave bore the same downcast expression–and I’d seen that look before. It wrapped around the face of that grandmother who welcomed us to this island–and now all who departed wore it like a funeral mask.

Soon, we would wear it, too. We would be the old guests–the departing family–and someone would replace us. We would be the sobbing grandmother, and someone else would have my cat.

Family Bereavement

Richard Evanson had little background in hospitality, and yet he contained a preternatural instinct for how human beings might like to be treated. He engaged this instinct not only in ensuring that his guests felt welcome but that his staff might be able to live comfortable lives.

He built a community in a manner that no other hotelier I can think of has ever managed before. He died in 2021, during the COVID pandemic, but not of the virus—and he’s spoken of today by the many who knew him and worked with him as though he still carries on. His son, Richard, Jr., manages the property on-site, and his daughter Racheli, handles the marketing from Australia.

Amidst joyful laughter, stories are told of him, sometimes in a manner that suggests he never really existed. He’s become legend here, merged into the soil that he once tilled. His business partner, who rowed to the island when he was only 17, Joe Naisali, died in 2010—a lifelike bust honors him next to the banyan tree that replaced the one Bebe blew down in the town square.

On the mornings of their departure, all guests are invited to join the eight o’clock staff meeting. And so, on our final morning, I sulked into this meeting as though ready for the gallows. Roughly a hundred family members looked back—my wife and I had met and mingled with many of them. We caught up on walks or excursions, at church or kava ceremonies. They sat with us at dinners or lunches and told us of their lives and wanted the details of ours. They’d welcomed us into a community–into a family–without reservation or prejudice, and now we had to go.

In the pretend state of the last week, we’d set up a make-believe life—an idyllic, wonderful life—void of politics, hatred, cruelty. It was a nicer family than most families actually are. And now we had to leave it all behind. We had to abandon a cat.

To live in such beauty, with such beauty, with such beautiful people—and to be forced to leave—like Adam and Eve—well, to put it bluntly, it sucks.

Tears had slowly built up inside me. The tears that are formed from happy moments–those that live in the heart and only escape when it’s broken.

I opened my mouth to say a farewell, my lips quivering. “I just want to say,” is how I think I began, but before any more words could come–I crumpled into mournful wails. I sobbed. 

I think words spat forward, but I don’t know what I said, and I don’t know what was heard. But I know it sounded like: 

“WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH, WHHAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH, WHAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!”

And that’s how I said goodbye. Sobbing. The grandmother we’d met on our arrival, the one I’d thought so strangely of, had exited with a dignified weeping, and words of wisdom–she had hoped we might be present in this island’s magic. 

But I couldn’t even string together a sentence, much less impart a lesson.

I succumbed to my wails, and collapsed into my sorrows, yearning for a communal paradise I might never see again. Crying for a cat, crying for a community, crying for this family, crying for their kindness—crying for how lovely life can be. 

And hoping that it can be like that again.