Fiji

by Anne Rothwell

It was hot! Earth-cracking, brain-scrambling heat! We moved lethargically along the beach to the spacious cabin we'd acquired that morning and collapsed on the beds.

Next morning was cooler with a slight breeze and the light had that wonderful clarity that artists would die for. We decided to go on a small ferry on the nearby river and visit the village on the opposite shore. Everywhere looked incredibly civilised. The thatched houses were neat, the grass was cut and we caught glimpses of television in some of the houses.

We stopped beside a small construction. The roof was like that of a wishing well. It was open-sided and inside was what looked like a large roller. "Bula" (Hello), said a voice behind us. We turned to face a huge smile beneath the usual large fuzzy mass of Fijian hair.

"Do you like our village?" the young man asked. "This is the drum we play for ceremonies," and he picked up two large sticks and hit the roller to demonstrate. "There is our chief's Bure." He pointed to an attractive long building. "And there is our church and here is our community hall." He ushered us inside where some ladies were busily working on the Tapa fabrics, which were made from bark. 

Somehow it was decided that they would have a Yaqona ceremony to welcome us, their guests. Yaqona is a root which grows widely and one of the ladies began grinding some with a mortar and pestle, to which she added water. It was soon prepared and we were invited to sit down with them. This was obviously the famous Kava ceremony, at which each person had to drink from the bowl, then clap twice. We knew it was not alcoholic, but is supposed to have a narcotic effect, so I sipped it carefully.

On the way back we were surprised to see the road lined with stalls which hadn't been there before. We went over to look and were immediately quoted a price. Seeing the surprise on our faces at the high price, the stallholder said, "You are from the ship, aren't you?" Little did we know that the Canberra was in dock and the passengers all ashore for their brief visit. While we were talking to him, I asked him where there was a church as the next day was Sunday. Having ascertained that I didn't want the Catholic, but the 'other' one, he gave me directions.

I duly went to the Methodist church, which was a little staid, but the singing was a pleasure to hear. The lady beside me shared her hymnbook and I sang my heart out in a foreign tongue. An hour later, as I left to go home, I was attracted by the sound of hand clapping and much more rousing singing. I followed the sound around the corner and there was a Pentecostal church. I only caught the end of the preaching in English and the final song, but at least I knew where to go the following week.

First published in VISA issue 56A (June 2004)