Nine of us flew into Nadi airport with paddles, inflatable canoes, one raft, tents and baggage. On a trip to Fiji to test the possibility of canoeing as a tourist attraction, we were a fairly motley crew: teachers, public servants, a solicitor and a journalist. Aged from the early 20s to over 50, some of us were rank amateur canoeists, persuaded to pay our own way to help our ‘leader’ try out his adventure travel idea, see something of Fiji, and have some fun.
Fiji is made up of about 320 islands. Viti Levu is the largest, on which is the capital, Suva. Volcanic, the island’s highest peak is Mt Victoria – also known as Tomaniivi – which reaches 1,323m. A north-south mountain range divides Viti Levu into two; the eastern side receives heavy rainfall and enjoys dense tropical forests; the western side has only grassy plains scattered with clumps of casuarina and pandanus.
We first set off by bus towards the Sigatoka River source in the west, later transferring to the back of a small covered truck to bump up and down hills along a dusty narrow road to get as close to the rivers source as we could. We were to meet up with the Sigatoka River a little south of Kiyasi, a village in the foothills.
Kiyasi was the home village of our Fijian guide, Lati Levu, a burly man with a great sense of humour, and a highly respected former international rugby player. Once we had arrived at his lonely hill village, we gathered around for an official welcome. His eyes glinted with mischief as he told us if we’d come 100 years earlier, the village would have eaten us.
He was not exaggerating. After the 1789 mutiny on the ‘Bounty,’ Captain William Bligh and his crew deliberately avoided the Fijian islands during their incredible 6,701km journey in an open long boat to Timor because the Fijians were well known as cannibals.
Fortunately for us the village had lost that taste and Lati Levu’s welcome was sincere. We soon learned to call out ‘Bula’, the Fijian ‘Hullo’, and although we planned to sleep in our tents, the village would have none of it. We were invited into their homes to spread our sleeping bags on the floor and make ourselves at home. As it turned out, we stayed in the homes of villagers or in schools wherever we went, warmly drawn into the protective cluster of the host village.
For meals we squatted along a series of usually checked tablecloths set out on pandanus mats on the ground and ate that day’s speared river fish and local vegetables, such as taro and yams. Palusami – a Fijian favourite – was made of spinach-like leaves of the dalo plant interlaid with coconut milk and, often, with squares of tinned corned beef. Bananas were everywhere, and so was coconut milk, straight from the coconut. It’s unbelievable how swiftly young lads can shin up the tall, slippery palm trunks and send coconuts cascading down.
Children were adored and indulged, although there was a noticeable sense of the proper and old-fashioned decorum which the children knew better than to ignore. Religious sentiments have remained strong since missionaries first arrived in Fiji in 1834, bringing Christianity and an end to cannibalism. Modesty was carefully observed, and at one inland village, women were still expected to be fully dressed when bathing in the river. It was so hot it didn’t matter to us and we soon dried off. A young Canadian of our party insisted on swimming in the river in her bikini. Her insensitivity offended us as much as it was likely to have troubled our hosts.
Fiji is thought to have been settled originally about three and a half thousand years ago by a mix of dark-skinned people of Melanesian origin and Polynesians. Fijian tribal chiefs invited the British to assume sovereignty in 1874, but the country gained independence nearly 100 years later in 1970. Members of the Indian community, whose families arrived as indentured workers to the British, have become highly effective traders and business people, so much so resentment between the two communities runs deep. As a result, we could only stay with one group or the other.
We set off down the wide Sigatoka River, its waters at a low level and the surrounding vegetation showing all the signs of prolonged drought. What had been grassy green banks were now a few dried yellow spikes of tough grass and dust.
Our canoeing days fell into a pattern. After breakfast, we carried our inflated canoes – sometimes on our heads – and the one raft to the river’s edge, accompanied by excited village children keen to wave us off. Daily we put in a steady paddle until we stopped for a picnic lunch on a bank. At times strong currents confronted us but most of the water levels remained low and there were times when we had to jump out of the canoes to protect them from puncturing. This was the same river that during seasonal flooding could bring torrential waters strong enough to sweep away both villages and crops.
As we paddled around a river U-bend in the heat of the sun one morning, a lone woman working in the bare, dry fields, wrenched peanut plants from the ground and smiling, waded into the water to give us handfuls. It was the first time I had eaten peanuts off the vine. It was a kind, generous gesture.
This western side of the island was so dry that we were astonished by the contrast when we crossed to the other side and saw its lush jungle green.
The Waidina, the second river we reconnoitered, is in the south-east of Viti Levu. This time we paddled under the direction of a former gold miner, Jone Naulitu, who also had a great sense of humour. He soon told us, chuckling, he much preferred paddling with us to gold mining, for which wages were incredibly low.
The river meanders through a jungle of many and luxuriant greens; so much so, you are surprised when occasional shafts of sunlight penetrate deep dark, mysterious glades that beg to be explored. In the background lie the island’s beautiful mountains, wreathed in misty blue mauve tones.
As we continued our paddling, most mornings brought blue skies, with wisps of cloud arranged by gentle winds as if an artist were at work. In the afternoons, fitful, warm torrents rained down. We kept going for the showers refreshed our aching, sweating limbs, and as soon as the sun came out again, we quickly dried off.
When we approached a village, our leader made sure we obeyed tradition by offering a bunch of kava roots, as a sevu sevu for the yaqona (kava) ceremony. At one village, we were invited to join the ceremony. The men squatted in a circle, with the women and children behind them. There were four women in our group of nine, and we squatted, or tried to, at the centre with our fellow male canoeists. I only noticed later there appeared to be a separation of the sexes.
A large bowl contained the kava, now ground to a powder and mixed with cold water. A formal ceremony followed when the ashen grey drink, known as ‘grog’, was poured into small bowls and presented in order of status. Honoured guests were served first. Tradition dictates that the drink should go down in one gulp. Sipping was not on. The grog tasted slightly peppery, powdery and mild. It has the reputation of inducing a relaxed state of mind, a lulling form of intoxication. Drunk regularly, it might well discourage much activity at all.
As a whisky drinker, I experienced little immediate effect. However, once downed in a gulp, you found another round of small bowls was being circulated and early on I voted myself off the imbibing list. There are advantages in being female. A kava ceremony can continue into the night and I remember being woken about 3am that same night as the husband returned home rather clumsily. His wife lit the oil lamps and there were rattles and bangs as she prepared him a meal. Their children, a few feet away, just slept on.
On another night we were invited to a big celebration of music and dancing when several villages joined forces. We women canoeists were carefully guided to an area on one side where women and children squatted. ‘Our’ men were put in a place of honour at the end of the rectangle, splendid in their isolation.
Walking lights – men carrying flaming torches on long sticks up and down – lit the area. We clapped enthusiastically after every dance and song and, as the night went on, the atmosphere and tempo built up, backed by throbbing drums. Then came the warriors’ dance. Between 20 to 30 huge men, faces painted, necks wreathed in leaves, arms and legs decorated with leafy amulets, and wearing grass skirts, danced themselves into wild enthusiasm, the sound of the beat pounding increasingly louder and more urgent against the night sky. The frenetic dancers and their shining bodies threw long, gyrating, sinister shadows across the ground.
After an unexpected quiet, the men, brandishing spears and shields, suddenly let out a wild warriors’ shriek and rushed howling at the little group of ‘our’ isolated men, encircling them with a jubilant yell. If the men in our group were not scared, they should have been. They all grinned broadly afterwards enjoying the joke, but there had to have been a moment of panic followed by sudden relief.
We came off the river one late afternoon, saturated and muddy up to our knees – river silt clung to our legs, very black and so smelly we would have embarrassed a water rat. We were booked into a family hotel for the night. It was near the river, owned by a retired, reserved, but always polite ex-British navy officer, and his huge, loving and always laughing, much younger Fijian wife. They had a little boy and it was his eleventh birthday party.
Unaware that a party was in progress, we parked the canoes, raft and paddles outside the hotel and went into the hotel foyer. The birthday boy was soon to cut his birthday cake, ablaze with candles. Despite our protests, we were ushered into the sitting room where beautifully dressed children and their parents and grandparents, including two Indian women in immaculate saris, awaited a speech from the boy’s father. We perched upright on elegant dining room chairs, distinctly uneasy because of our wet, unsightly, mud-streaked and stinking clothes, as formalities were observed, followed by tea and cake. We were highly complimented to be invited at all but desperate to get under a hot shower. Being an ex-naval officer his father made a witty, confident and rather long speech. As soon as we could, we spoke our true thanks and acute disquiet over the state of our clothes and made for the bathrooms.
Group embarrassment was even worse when, in the middle of the second leg of our journey, we stayed in a hilly village a long way from city lights, where the homes were strategically placed in two rows facing each other, a green sward between them.
The sky that night was black, black, not a glimpse of stars. There was only the restless sound of the dense forest surrounding us as we nodded off to sleep. Even the dogs were curled up and at peace, wrapped as we were in an all-enveloping, quiet dark night.
And then it happened. There was a ruckus and a bang, and a crashing. In an instant, every dog was barking furiously, every man of every household jumped into action and hurtled outside, grasping a lantern, to look for an intruder. At every door were silhouetted taut, tall, muscled bodies, tense in apprehension, gazing outwards, lanterns swinging from side to side to see who or what was about. They looked fierce, implacable sentinels and you could have believed the village was under attack.
It was then our esteemed Australian leader emerged, sheepishly, from the darkness. He had felt the call of nature and got up to make his way into the forest. Unfortunately, he had tipped over a metal pail that went crashing down a slope and sent the dogs into a frenzy. Such was his embarrassment, what could we do? We could only giggle. And the village went back to bed.
The idea of canoeing holidays in Fiji was a good one. A big adventure company moved in with a similar project before our leader could get anything off the ground. That’s life. Even so, we had a lot of fun.
Source: Hot Feet and Far Hills
By Judy Cannon
www.tytherleighpress.com.au