Smile On Their Isle
The Age
Saturday June 12, 2004
The mod cons may be missing but, as Lawrence Money discovers, Fijian village life has much to offer.
It was only seconds after her high-beam Fijian smile of welcome at Lautoka wharf that Silipa's face suddenly grew serious. There had been a terrible flood at Nausori Nalawa village a few weeks earlier, the worst for 52 years.
The Wainibuka River, which had sustained her village for more than 150 years, had swept away a church, kindergarten and four homes, buried the town's artesian well, ruined crops and, alas, had erased the remote community's fledgling venture into 21st-century tourism: the grass bure in which the visitors from the outside world were to sample a slice of authentic Fijian life.
The bure, with adjoining earthen toilet and ablutions hut, had disappeared one afternoon in a fierce torrent. "Maybe it is now in New Zealand," suggested Silipa, rediscovering her smile.
And it had been impossible to let us know. The village has no phone and local mail moves at the pace of an island turtle. But, she said, there were alternative arrangements. And thus began, in a battered truck with a fractured windscreen, a trip back in time.
For three hours we rattled north-east on Viti Levu, far away from the well-worn tourist trails. The more remote the area, the more the passers-by seemed to gape and wave at the strange white faces. Finally, we stopped. "You can get kava here," suggested driver Sanaila, Silipa's uncle and a descendant of the namesake village founder.
Earlier correspondence had suggested a $F10 "entry fee" and "grog or kava" for the village chief plus "$30 per knight (sic) for accommodation and three meals a day", a bargain indeed for Sir Tourist who had just shelled out $1662 for three nights aboard the Blue Lagoon line's sumptuous Mystique Princess cruiser.
So we alighted at a battered store at the local bus stop. The bearded storekeeper inside was behind thick steel mesh. Apparently kava, the plant root that has been brewed into a tranquillising local potion for centuries, requires tight security.
"Thirteen dollars," said the bearded one, handing over a bunch of roots encased in newspaper. Then, as waiting bus commuters gawped, we bounced off down a hopelessly potholed track to the village with only one brief stop to enable a change of clothing. Long trousers or sulus are the go: bare legs are frowned upon in the village, as are caps and sunglasses. With a roar of engine and a grinding of clutch we crossed a 75-metre concrete bridge and we had arrived.
Never did a pop or football star receive a wilder welcome. They came by the dozen, men, women, wide-eyed children, swarming out to greet us. Within seconds the suitcases were out of the truck and heading up the hill under a forest of small arms and legs. "We will put you in the house of the chief's brother," said Silipa. "He is away."
Along a network of narrow concrete footpaths we trod, past washing lines and chooks, past corrugated iron huts and a freshly painted Methodist church. Even with only 450 people the village has four different religious groups (those 19th-century missionaries did a thorough job) and it was the Assembly of God congregation that had launched this modest tourist venture to help raise money for a new church, even before the first was swept away.
It was Sunday afternoon. "Would you like to attend the church service?" asked Silipa. Pastor Jone was in full flight when we reached Sanaila's home, the AOG's temporary venue, and we Aussies were afforded the luxury of two sofas. The congregation, as they do for every other social gathering, sat on grass mats, men cross-legged, women legs aside.
For such a gentle and languid race, the Fijians have a contrarily rapid tongue and whatever lesson pastor Jone was imparting was being delivered at lightning speed. Then he switched to English and, in a voice choked with emotion, welcomed the Australians as "brothers and sisters" who should regard Nausori as their home.
Peter and Barbara Swain brought greetings, and several suitcases of pre-loved clothing, from their church in NSW and as Barbara spoke, the tears streamed down pastor Jone's brown face in abundance. "Hallelujah, thank you Jesus," he murmured, with similar support from the flock.
There is something about island life that lends itself naturally to song and it seemed every member of pastor Jone's congregation, regardless of age, possessed a strong clear voice and ability to harmonise. With the service ended, they all came forward to shake our hands, all smiles and welcomes, before we trekked back to the house, trailed by an ever-present fan club of giggling urchins. Then back down to Sanaila's house (and now community hall) for dinner.
A Westerner, perusing the rolling green hills around the village, would see none of the hidden larder but, at meal times, it all appears on the plates. Yams, a white root vegetable called cassava, a substance like sugar cane called duruka, a greyish rock-like root vegetable called taro. And from the village's own garden, bananas, coconut, cucumber, onions.
At an unforgettable lunch by the river next day the women created a wonderful feast: maleya fish speared, then roasted over a fire, while we watched. Taro leaves sprinkled with onion, Chinese salt and coconut milk and folded carefully inside a hollowed bamboo cylinder that was also placed on the fire.
What had Silipa, the self-appointed tourist guide, planned for the guests? We went to present our "entry fee" and kava to the chief's brother, representing him in his absence, and partook of this Fijian ritual.
We trekked to the village "dam", a small concrete basin no more than three metres square that feeds the village by gravity through an ancient pipe. We visited the pride of the village, the generator, which provides power from 6pm to 10pm "Fijian time" (i.e. it may sometimes be 6.30) and which was almost wiped out by a large tree during the flood. It costs $F10 in fuel for each evening's supply and the 62 houses take turns in paying.
There is much the village has not got: there is no hot water, there is no sewerage, there is no electric light after 10pm. There are no washing machines: the river is the washboard and the drier, clothes being laid out on the warm rocks in the afternoon. There is no TV apparent, although we were told there was one set, and a VCR, somewhere in the village.
On the other hand the village has no taxes, no traffic jams, no pollution. The children are happy, respectful and affectionate. The family support system is strong.
The visitor learns much in two days. That the strange scratching on the roofs at night are the geckos. That the village chief is not the original: he had to abdicate because his religious beliefs forbade drinking kava. That wages are pitiful by Western standards: one female villager works as housekeeper for a couple in Suva for $F2 (about $1.70 Australian) an hour.
We learnt that the villagers wear no shoes, have no use for chairs and possess only three motor vehicles between them. We learnt that the bau version of Fijian is spoken throughout the islands but each province has its own dialect as well. We learnt that it is rude to stand still while others are sitting and one must move swiftly outside with an apology that phonetically sounds like "chillo".
We learnt that, when guests are eating, the Fijian villager sits patiently waiting for them to finish before starting himself, even though this may take an hour or more.
And we learnt that it is a struggle for communities like this to embrace the new while attempting to hold on to the traditions of the past. For 148 years, whenever the villagers wished to cross to the other side of the river (and that is where the schools are), they had to wade through the water or cross by raft. In 2000, the Japanese Government funded a $170,500 concrete bridge (the villagers raised $10,000 of that) and, finally, their three battered trucks could make it across to the village side.
It was over this bridge that we were driven on the last day to meet the bus at the kava stop: a $8.50 fare to Lautoka then $F1.80 to Nadi. Three very economical transit hours in which to contemplate that grand departure: the waving, the hugging and, as we crossed that revolutionary bridge, the cheering from a group of children who then plunged plunged off the side into the river with a giant ceremonial splash. Now you won't get that sort of farewell at the Ritz.
Fast facts
Geting There: Qantas/Air Pacific flies to Nadi from Melbourne.
Visa requirements: A visa is issued on arrival.
Currency: $A1 equals about $F1.25.
Visitor information: Those interested in sampling village life at Naisori can contact Silipa Nabusa at PO Box 922, Rakiraki, Fiji Islands, or Kerry Fornito at Harvey World Travel (9372 3511). Accommodation and meals provided, BYO kava.
© 2004 The Age