Fiji — the very name evoked in my mind that mid-century notion of a paradise both pristine and remote. In truth, Fiji has long ceased to be particularly inaccessible. Commercial tourism began in the 1960s, and over half a million tourists were arriving in Fiji every year by the turn of the millennium. I had come here to see how responsible, community-centred, ecological tourism could offer a powerful case for nature.
The journey on a rickety propeller plane to the eastern island of Taveuni showed us some of Fiji’s natural riches from the air, but I was looking forward to exploring the underwater life around this South Pacific archipelago – the reefs and marine life that made it one of the world’s top destinations for divers and marine conservationists. Our port of call at the end of that first flight was Viani Bay, tucked away on the eastern spur of Fiji’s second island, Vanua Levu. There are no roads in or out of the horseshoe bay; all of its roughly 100 residents trek over the surrounding hills on foot or motor in and out by boat. We chose the latter, skipping over the waves from the airstrip on nearby Taveuni island at first light, a flood of moonlight giving way to vermilion, orange, and sapphire-blue skies in quick succession.
I suspected the long journey would be worth it. Viani, after all, is perfectly situated for divers looking to access Fiji’sfamed Rainbow Reef, first mapped by Jacques Cousteau and one of the world’s prime examples of the soft-coral ecosystem. In normal times, the reef would be teeming not just with fish, but with visitors from around the globe. But in the early days of Fiji’s tentative post-pandemic reopening, we virtually had this bucket-list dive site to ourselves. The resort I was visiting in Viani Bay, a small, three-bungalow operation called Dive Academy Fiji, is the brainchild of Marina Walser and Jone Waitaiti, business partners who met on Germany’s frigid (and, in my mind, utterly inexplicable) scuba-diving circuit. Marina, tired of a long career in the corporate world, had wanted a change of scenery that involved better weather and diving; Jone had yearned to return to his native Fiji. The journey from dream to reality was a long one.
Camping on the beach for nearly a year, they worked with local tradespeople to build wooden bungalows in the traditional Fijian bure style. Slowly winning the community's trust, they developed a successful, sustainable dive operation that lasted three years. Then the pandemic hit, and Fiji shut down, forcing them to survive by hosting local visitors and the occasional yacht. During the lockdown period, many of Fiji’s 100,000-plus tourism workers returned to their villages, making ends meet through farming, fishing, and government relief. While many workers in the rest of the world moved online to do business, many Fijians returned to their roots. Ecotourism operators and their conservation efforts had to survive on public funding and the hope that visitors would eventually return.
Life was simple in Viani, dictated by the rhythms of the sun and sea. Each morning, we rose early, and the guides pored over tide charts to pick out the day’s sites. This patient approach yielded fabulous results: plunging in just as a nutrient-rich current roared to life after two days of quieter seas, we saw the Great White Wall of soft coral in full bloom and swam through eerie forests of sea fans. With firm limits on artificial lighting to avoid disturbing the island’s fauna, we’d retreat to our cabins by sunset, to be in bed by nine and up at sunrise, ready to dive again.
Conservation-minded operators such as Marina and Jone had persuaded locals to cut back on fishing, enticed by the promise of well-paid resort jobs for the community. They had worked with the authorities to establish a coral nursery to replant nearby reefs. Divers were encouraged to visit the site and assist with the replanting. Was all the expense and effort worth it? ‘Looking at all the locals whom we have trained to become divers… and the excitement of every local we take to the reef, we can strongly say it does,’ Marina told me. ‘And the guests turn into ocean ambassadors, too.’
Viani Bay offers a distinctly pragmatic example that proves nature can be worth more alive than dead. It is a work in progress, but inviting sustainable numbers of visitors in to experience these places seemed a great deal better for people and the planet than the unchecked destruction that is too often the default — to say nothing of the threats from overfishing and rising seas that can only be weathered if these places can create resilient local economies to pay for adaptation.
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Siddarth Shrikanth is an expert in green investing, and his book The Case for Nature (Duckworth Books) explains why protecting nature is not only the right thing to do but also in the planet's economic interests. With stories from Kenya, Fiji, India, Colombia, the UK, and the US, he shares the tools to understand how we can work with, not against, nature.
