An Evening in a Fiji Village
Posted: Wednesday, September 07, 2011
by Sara O'Rourke
After spending a good part of my year in Melbourne, I decided to take a jet over to lovely, little Fiji - small in geographical size yet beaming with pride and joy. I have never seen so many pearly white smiles or welcoming waves than travelling the streets of Viti Levu island.
The spur for this particular piece of writing is the fondness I hold warmly for a particular memory of mine, of an evening spent in a little village near Mango Bay, just south of Nadi, the capital. The day had begun with a typically monsoon-style trek up to a collection of perfect fresh-water falls in the Fijian jungle, losing a pair of converse I had travelled with since the ripe old age of eighteen to the clutches, or rather, the suction, of a pit of mud. Once washed as much as possible in the seawater, I was kindly invited by one of our jungle-guides, a local boy, to drink cava at his family home in a neighbouring village. Partially tickled with nerves and buzzing with curiosity, I cordially accepted and wrapped my orange towel around my waist to my knees, and off I went on my great Fijian cultural adventure!
In Fijian village culture, there is normally a ranking of the traditional roles amongst families. I had learnt about this only earlier in the day, and to find that the boy escorting me was part of the top of the ranks, my nerves began to bubble again. It was already dark by now. As I walked through the village, curious neighbours poked their heads out to take a good look at the stranger, tourist, invited into their home. Fiji often operates an open-door culture in the villages, so my passing-by was seen by all.
As soon as I arrived, the most adorable two-year old girl, with copper curls and, later to be discovered, a mischievious nature to match, greeted me with proud teeth and energy. I sat myself on the colourful mat in the living area and as the evening progressed I must have met around twenty or thirty different people.
It may have been the twenty odd coconut shells of cava I drank, but extremely quickly I felt at home and part of the village. Grandmothers, cousins, sisters and friends greeted me, were so enthused and interested to hear about my life, my travels, my religion, my country, I hardly had a chance to express to them how beautiful and impressive their own country had been! After a while, I reluctantly had to ask to end the seemingly infinite cava ceremony, despite the honour it represented, for I started to feel rather dizzy and queasy. I am not sure whether it was the idea of drinking what looked remarkably like liquid mud or the fact that it actually tasted just as it looked, but I knew I couldn't last much longer. Instead, the family invited me to watch the television with them - a funeral process was showing of a local famous person. The family sat in silence, intent and humble as they listened and watched. I did the same.
As the evening began to wrap up, I thanked each person I had met with a handshake and a kiss, and the boy led me through the village to hail a taxi from the main road at the top. His little sister with the copper curls hopped into my arms and I carried her, proudly and with honour, through the village, and quickly a short train of other village kids began to form behind me. Along the way, even on my way home, I must have met another twenty people, disappointed only that I couldn't have spent more than a fleeting moment meeting each and every one.
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