Sunday, January 18, 2004
Small Fiji island welcomes visitors with kava
LOOKING AHEAD by Wally Dobelis
On Fiji’s Yasava Island, Nabukeru village, we the discovery cruise group whose Zodiacs had made a wet landing from our M/S Clipper Odyssey just minutes ago, had our first Kava ceremony. Seated on tarpaulins, under the low roof of of grass mats, we were offered yanggona, the Fiji name of the freshly prepared drink made from mashed roots of the kava plant, a member of the pepper family. The master of yanggona dipped coconut cups into the plastic pail, and his associate, another elderly man, dignified in his wraparound sulu skirt, cordially offered them to all, locals and strangers. We learned the ceremony by watching the village elders, who signalled acceptance by slowly clapping hands three times, swinging the upper, right hand, high over the left, and uttering the magic welcoming word, “bula!” then downing the kava. It was described by the few visitors who accepted the brew as tasting of dishwater, not surprising, since some fresh shawings of the root remain in the drink. A few small cups of kava left me with a mild tingling of the tongue.
The visit to Nabukeru was negotiated beforehand, costing the tour company $F5,000 (about $2,500) and included the reception, a brief religious ceremony by a young Methodist minister, followed by a longer native event, with kava, a visit of the village (pop. 119) and hiking in the area, and use of the beach and reef. The village elders, dressed in sulus and tropical shirts, and wearing frangipani and grass leis - some sporting Melanesian curls, others with unexplainably urban haircuts that would have looked de rigeur on Wall Street - sat in three rows while intoning the melodies. We squatted, sat or reclined facing them – standing over your hosts is discourteous and might provoke a bloody fight in the old days – ready to get up and stretch at the end. But then the warning word, “meke” was sounded. A band of bare-chested young men with woden spears and swords broke into the clearing to the side, followed by women dressed in a local variants of wraparound mumus, all shouting a warlike dirge. We remained sitting, resigned to a long set of songs and dances, presumably celebrating harvest. The agile leader of the youths, face twisted, was exhorting his followers to a more militant performance, until thw women stepped forward and took over, doing planting songs and dances, very peaceful. The stout elder ladies were instructing their schoolgirl companions in the proper movements, all most Sunday-school like. Finally, we were able to bid a grateful “vinaka” and get up, to survey the blanket displays of 40-odd colorfully dressed market women, reclining along the beach, offering grass skirts (plastic), wood carvings, shell and glass beads, Hawaiian-type shirts/ wraparounds and runners of excellent painted tapa cloth (bark of the paper mulberry tree)..
Opting to visit the village, we joined our Australian anthropologist, Bob Tonkinson, who had the portly Mayor guide us. We saw three types of bures (huts), the traditional grass-roofed, the corrugated tin, and some of almost modern cement block construction, expensive but safe from the seasonal storms. The village uses the tourist contributions to buy cement and, with neighbors’ help, build houses for newlyweds, a way of keeping the younger generation down on the farm. They also have a generator, providing electricity four hours a day. Entering a grass bure, a one-room affair with dirt floor, we saw two ragged beds curtained off in the back, a low chest of drawers in front of the beds , with a mirror and a metal radio on it. Along the walls were old cardboard suitcases used as wardrobes, with a few dishes stored on top. On the walls were small framed family photographs and some magazine ads, no lamps visible. Cooking was done outside. A smiling woman and two toddlers welcomed us, informing the guide that her husband was away at work, fishing or gardening.
Crossing the village green to the Methodist church we stumbled over land crab holes (they come out at night and are very tasty), past the Mayor’s house (best in Nabukeru, almost like a real residence, freshly painted but equally poorly equipped), and the meke grounds, where men were still enjoying “grog and songs, in your honor.” Once there, the Mayor treated us to stories and casually showed the collection plate (we took the hint). The village hereditary chief is a woman (matrilineal passing of the title is not common in all islands), currently abroad, in Brazil, on national business. This mix of primitive and global is mind-boggling but not uncommon – two years ago in November we talked with village Fijians of 9/11, which they had seen on CNN.
Meanwhile our ship’s physician, Chris, an Australian flying doctor, had conducted an impromptu clinic, dispersing ship’s medicines where they could help, gently advising others to make their way to the main island. He gave away hundreds of packets of Tylenol, bandaids, and other provisions from the ship’s stores to a woman who acts as the village’s nurse. There is no professional medical help on Yasava’s six villages, although some government medics come visiting, once in a while. Strangers bringing old clothes, medicine and some money perform a nature’s function. It makes one feel almost good, about being a nosey tourist.
On Fiji’s Yasava Island, Nabukeru village, we the discovery cruise group whose Zodiacs had made a wet landing from our M/S Clipper Odyssey just minutes ago, had our first Kava ceremony. Seated on tarpaulins, under the low roof of of grass mats, we were offered yanggona, the Fiji name of the freshly prepared drink made from mashed roots of the kava plant, a member of the pepper family. The master of yanggona dipped coconut cups into the plastic pail, and his associate, another elderly man, dignified in his wraparound sulu skirt, cordially offered them to all, locals and strangers. We learned the ceremony by watching the village elders, who signalled acceptance by slowly clapping hands three times, swinging the upper, right hand, high over the left, and uttering the magic welcoming word, “bula!” then downing the kava. It was described by the few visitors who accepted the brew as tasting of dishwater, not surprising, since some fresh shawings of the root remain in the drink. A few small cups of kava left me with a mild tingling of the tongue.
The visit to Nabukeru was negotiated beforehand, costing the tour company $F5,000 (about $2,500) and included the reception, a brief religious ceremony by a young Methodist minister, followed by a longer native event, with kava, a visit of the village (pop. 119) and hiking in the area, and use of the beach and reef. The village elders, dressed in sulus and tropical shirts, and wearing frangipani and grass leis - some sporting Melanesian curls, others with unexplainably urban haircuts that would have looked de rigeur on Wall Street - sat in three rows while intoning the melodies. We squatted, sat or reclined facing them – standing over your hosts is discourteous and might provoke a bloody fight in the old days – ready to get up and stretch at the end. But then the warning word, “meke” was sounded. A band of bare-chested young men with woden spears and swords broke into the clearing to the side, followed by women dressed in a local variants of wraparound mumus, all shouting a warlike dirge. We remained sitting, resigned to a long set of songs and dances, presumably celebrating harvest. The agile leader of the youths, face twisted, was exhorting his followers to a more militant performance, until thw women stepped forward and took over, doing planting songs and dances, very peaceful. The stout elder ladies were instructing their schoolgirl companions in the proper movements, all most Sunday-school like. Finally, we were able to bid a grateful “vinaka” and get up, to survey the blanket displays of 40-odd colorfully dressed market women, reclining along the beach, offering grass skirts (plastic), wood carvings, shell and glass beads, Hawaiian-type shirts/ wraparounds and runners of excellent painted tapa cloth (bark of the paper mulberry tree)..
Opting to visit the village, we joined our Australian anthropologist, Bob Tonkinson, who had the portly Mayor guide us. We saw three types of bures (huts), the traditional grass-roofed, the corrugated tin, and some of almost modern cement block construction, expensive but safe from the seasonal storms. The village uses the tourist contributions to buy cement and, with neighbors’ help, build houses for newlyweds, a way of keeping the younger generation down on the farm. They also have a generator, providing electricity four hours a day. Entering a grass bure, a one-room affair with dirt floor, we saw two ragged beds curtained off in the back, a low chest of drawers in front of the beds , with a mirror and a metal radio on it. Along the walls were old cardboard suitcases used as wardrobes, with a few dishes stored on top. On the walls were small framed family photographs and some magazine ads, no lamps visible. Cooking was done outside. A smiling woman and two toddlers welcomed us, informing the guide that her husband was away at work, fishing or gardening.
Crossing the village green to the Methodist church we stumbled over land crab holes (they come out at night and are very tasty), past the Mayor’s house (best in Nabukeru, almost like a real residence, freshly painted but equally poorly equipped), and the meke grounds, where men were still enjoying “grog and songs, in your honor.” Once there, the Mayor treated us to stories and casually showed the collection plate (we took the hint). The village hereditary chief is a woman (matrilineal passing of the title is not common in all islands), currently abroad, in Brazil, on national business. This mix of primitive and global is mind-boggling but not uncommon – two years ago in November we talked with village Fijians of 9/11, which they had seen on CNN.
Meanwhile our ship’s physician, Chris, an Australian flying doctor, had conducted an impromptu clinic, dispersing ship’s medicines where they could help, gently advising others to make their way to the main island. He gave away hundreds of packets of Tylenol, bandaids, and other provisions from the ship’s stores to a woman who acts as the village’s nurse. There is no professional medical help on Yasava’s six villages, although some government medics come visiting, once in a while. Strangers bringing old clothes, medicine and some money perform a nature’s function. It makes one feel almost good, about being a nosey tourist.
# posted by Wally Dobelis @ 6:26 PM 
