Going Native with the Fijians

We shared tales, inquired about their village life, and their church under construction with hand tools. The preacher, a wiry man with one tooth, long stringy hair and a gray wispy beard, exchanged spiritual discussions with us. It was evident his advice was well-respected in the village.

As we returned to our dinghy, a little girl -- of maybe ten years of age? -- took my hand and followed me the mile down the dirt trail. She chattered nonstop and asked, "Where do you come from?" I answered, "America." Islanders often don't comprehend what or where the United States actually was. Ah, but -- America!-- they knew. It frequently went like this: "America!?" Then: "Do you have a gun? Is your neighbor a movie star?" What had Hollywood introduced them to?

The sweet child glanced down at my shoes -- my laces were trailing in the dirt. She knelt in front to tie them (being very concerned), looping and looping for a very long time while I watched her, fascinated with her focus of intent and obvious pleasure in being my new friend. She never did get it right, but the end result looked beautiful.

At the dinghy, she handed me my shoes, her toes oozing in the thick mud, and waited on the sand banks until we pulled away, waving constantly with a big smile fixed on her pretty brown face. I wanted to bring her home to play with my jewelry-making tools and gemstones, letting her have a taste of my life, much like her chief had given us. Would it confuse her? Make her -- sad! -- or happy? We'd heard this concern expressed many times from other world cruising sailors on their second and third circumnavigation who were more experienced in village matters than ourselves. It sounded rather harsh, for we'd invited village children aboard Scud when anchored off other villages and they'd run wild through the boat, figuring loose articles, wide-eyed and amazed -- leaving very happy, indeed!

We snaked down the winding river until we reached Scud in her quiet reverie. River birds were beginning to roost in the waning light. As we were climbing aboard the sugarscoops, tying up our dinghy, I heard the VHF radio announce, "Scud, Scud; Ocelot, Ocelot". I answered, and we switched channels. My friend Sue on Ocelot asked, "Do you want to watch the firewalking ceremony and enjoy the feast prepared in the lovo (dirt pit oven) tomorrow?"

I accepted -- excited! -- wondering: Would I be asked to drink kava?

"Let's explore upriver!", I suggested to my husband, Peter. " Drink some kava; see the villages; meet the people?"

We were anchored on the south coast of Vitu Levi of the Fijian archipelago in Likuri Harbor. Fiji had brought out the going native in me. Drinking kava with the islanders would be a rewarding experience, one never to be forgotten. All we had to do was -- go upriver!

Fiji was the perfect place to go native. The happiness and warmth of the islands was felt immediately when we cleared Customs, with wide grins and much laughing ensuing. Formalities were stiff; however, in order to preserve their ancestral customs, still honored in the villages. Our itinerary was a necessary document for their clearing-in procedures.

We motored in our inflatable dinghy up the narrow Bitiri river leading to the various villages, passing a boy who sat on the riverside watching the bird life and jumping fish. He waved as we motored by in our inflatable dinghy, looking curious at our craft. Further on, an old farmer plowed his sugarcane with two giant buffalo. I later met him when returning from the farmers' market in Nandi -- a full day's journey by bus and foot! He'd happily offered me a ride behind the buffalos that pulled us on a steel frame with jagged teeth to snag the tenactious stalks. I'd tumbled off several times from the buppy ride, giggling like a school girl, and climbed aboard again. Afterwards, I gave him my four inch bronze bracele, purchased in the Andes when last in Venezuela for hurricane season, as a gift for his wife.

I looked at my penciled map, hurriedly scrawled while an islander had given directions. "Turn left here," I coached to Peter, as we sped along the snaking river. Hidden channels appeared out of the thick mangrove forest and without our map, we'd surely been lost. We entered a very narrow way through the massive roots, its dark canopy giving us refuge from the searing heat, like walking into an air-conditioned room from a Floridian sidewalk in summer at noon. A cacophony of bird life resounded through the forest; crabs held court on the six inch wide roots; pernicious, colossal spiders stretched overhead across the water, forcing us to creep underneath. We kept our arms in close to avoid contact with the barnacle invested mangrove walking sticks.

Our gifts of T-shirts, toothbrushes and books were placed in the center along with the kava powder I had brought in the farmers' market back in Nandi, a big city nearby -- I'd initially been introduced to a social kava ceremony by the family selling the roots. Kava is a tranquilizing, nonalcoholic drink, made from the dried root of the pepper plant, which numbs the tongue and lips. It's a way of uniting the village tribe at the end of the day when work has been completed. Our sons, Adam and Warren, had accompanied me, and Warren had ended up sick in bed with a bellyache, his face rather numb. I embarrassingly hadn't drained my cup, begging off from an invading cold. This time, I needed to empty my mbilo (half coconut shell) of the foul tasting, mud-colored water; otherwise, I hadn't -- gone native!

A battered red boat resting on a tiny beach grabbed our attention at the end of a very narrow channel. Only a footpath led away from the riverside -- no other articles gave evidence of village life nearby. We slowly glided in to avoid going aground on the low tide.

I sank mid-calf in mud, alighting from the dinghy. We retrieved my flip flop and marched on down the village dirt trail, leaving the dinghy resting on the tiny beach with an anchor. Coming onto the rise of a hill, a rich golden countryside stretched like a blanket to the eastern horizon -- sign of a recent sugarcane harvest.

We had dressed conservatively out of respect, for these religious people don't approve of bare shoulders or knees due to their religion. It was hot in the glaring sun, but a cool breeze blew to assuage our discomfort.

A woman in a red sarong was hanging out her wash as we walked up, greeting her in Fijian, "Mblula" (Hello)! She replied, "Mbula!" She asked us to follow her to the house of their chief after we told her we were bearing supplies and gifts for the children. As we strode through the village, children peered from doors and behind trees, curious of their new visitors. We removed our hats and sunglasses, as per the custom for greeting a chief.

He appeared from his house with a broad smile spreading across his face and shook our hands, ebulliently saying, "Mbula!" We shook hands all around. A large village mat used for ceremonies was spread and we sat down in a circle. Made from coconut fiber, these large mats are hand-woven by the island woman with intricate designs to represent their rich tribal history.

A beautiful and toothless old man with weathered skin placed a large hand carved tanoa ( wooden bowl), nearly a meter wide, in front of the mixer, who was sitting to the left of the chief. I was to his right. It was important where everyone sat, according to their status in the tribe. Sometimes the officiates were adorned in tapa, a handmade cloth made from the bark of mulberry trees and painted with dye made from roots. Today the mixer was wearing a vibrant orange T-shirt emblazoned with Adidas.

The chief gave a short speech acknowledging us and we answered in greeting, thus launching the yanggona (kava) ceremony. The air of utmost gravity drifted through the air, it being the most ceremonial sacramental ritual and ancient tradition. Everyone was silent -- for now, but this was to change later . Around us, children and women watched, their backdrop a hilly carpet of stubby sugarcane stalks left over from the harvest. They clattered in the zephyr, bearing an ancestral song to accompany our yanggona.

A woman appeared with a pitcher of water and handed it to the mixer. An intricate process began between the mixer and the master of ceremonies, who was seated clockwise, to determine the strength of the kava by much pouring in and out of the half coconut shell. The exchange of important ceremonial phrases lasted a long period. When all was finally ready, the mixer squeezed the remaining juice from the pulp and announced rather loudly to the chief, "sa lose oti saka na yanggona, vaka turanga" (The kava is ready, my chief). The mixer then ran both hands around the rim of the tanoa and clapped three times. "Talo" (Serve), said the master of ceremonies.

A cupbearer then presented the first cup to Peter, being the guest of honor. He clapped once, drained it and shouted, "Matha!" (Empty)! Everyone clapped three times and repeated, "Matha!" The second and third cups went to an official and the chief, with three claps following. I was next and was very nervous, afraid I couldn't drain it, ruining the ceremony. My heart raced, sweat beaded on my forehead in the shade of the house beside us. When the mbilo was handed to me, I closed my eyes, smiled, and held my breath. Visions sprang into my head when as a child, my mother had coached castor oil down my throat before dinner to guard me from invisible invading germs. As the river water ran down my throat, I forced back an involuntary gag. A violent revolt began in my gut. Before it had a chance to overwhelm me, I loudly shouted, "Matha!" and threw up my arms into the air. Everyone knew I'd just barely achieved -- gone native -- and burst into full laughter. In fact, no one could maintain an order of silence for the rest of the yanggona ceremony and we all proceeded to carry on like a bunch of wild monkeys gone bananas in a tree. Three times the mbilo was passed around until the tanoa was emptied.