CRUISING - VOYAGES OF SUGAR BLUES

Cruising Home 

H&M's 2001 Adventure 

Voyages of Sugar Blues

  Sugar Blues 

  Flowers in the lagoon   

  Aitutaki - Maybe this
  time 

  Niue and Tonga  

  Godzone - Life in 
  the left lane...  

  Tonga II 

  I Got My Sevusevu
  in Savusavu in my
  Vulavula Sulu

  Rotuma - A Split
  Island

I Got My Sevusevu in Savusavu in My Vulavula Sulu

by Harry and Mary Abbott

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Great Timing! After two and a half days under sail from Tonga, here we sit at 3 AM, no moon, reef five miles ahead, four miles behind, probably a mile overhead for all I know. Pray for the GPS gods not to work on the system tonight... As always, the morning hours are the slowest. Finally the sky lightens enough to unroll a bit of jib and point the bow towards the fluorescent green cross on the church which marks the entrance to Levuka.

LEVUKA  Levuka lies on Ovalau Island just off the east coast of Viti Levu. It is the most obscure and out of the way of the three ports of entry. So why come here? In a few month's period, 450 boats enter Suva. It's a madhouse. It's also too easy to get caught up in the comfort of the Royal Suva Yacht Club. Some never leave. Their impressions of Fiji? It's a big busy city run by Indians.

Not your typical convenience store

Levuka, on the other hand, is as far removed from Suva as you can get. It was the original capitol of Fiji, and at one time had a reputation of being so rough that everyone was advised to carry a gun against "drink-maddened ruffians." Hemmed between mountains and sea, it simply could not keep up with expansion. Now it's so sleepy that rush hour only lasts five minutes. In the one block that is Levuka, there are maybe a dozen or so Indian or Chinese stores, a few restaurants, and two banks - all on one side of the street, I might add. It's a wonderful place, though, full of history and tradition. And the city fathers intend to keep it that way as no new buildings can be constructed, only the old ones renovated.

Kava root drying in the sun

We got our permission to visit a few outlying islands on the way to Vanua Levu and were off to Makogai Island in between rain squalls. A couple of swift downwind hours later we were anchored in front of the fisheries research station and were cutting up a fresh caught tuna. Dinner cooked as we waited for the weather to clear. That night we read up on proper greetings, sevusevu, and this village of death.

MAKOGAI The unmarked crosses marched up the hill, some broken, some fallen. Still, many dozens were straight and tall and stood high over the top of the weeds, looking down upon the research station which was once their home. In an attempt to isolate vukavuka, or leprosy, the Fiji government bought the island of Makogai in 1908. By 1911 the first sixty Fijians arrived, the first of 4,500 patients who would live here during the colony's 58 year existence. Later, islanders from Samoa, the Cooks, Tonga, the Solomans and Niue would also come.

Grave of Mother Mary Agnes

In early times, persons with vukavuka were smoked over a fire of sinu gage, a poisonous bark. As they usually suffocated, the cure did eliminate suffering but did little to curb the disease. It wasn't until 1948 that sulphetrone came and within a matter of weeks sores and lesions healed, and all of Makogai held a party. In 1969, the station was abandoned and the last seventeen patients were moved to Twomey Hospital in Suva. More than half of the patients that came here survived, mostly thanks to Mother Mary Agnes and the Catholic Sisters. Afraid of a Catholic foothold, the Methodist government had not allowed them to preach, only to nurse and die, as some did, victims of the very disease they came to heal. Mother Mary Agnes escaped the disease and died a natural death in 1955 at the age of 85. She had accomplished her task. It was a special task for special people. A visitor once told a sister, "I wouldn't do this for a million dollars." The sister smiled and quietly replied, "Neither would I."

About 1979, the quarantine officers gave permission for the Fisheries and the Agriculture Departments to move in and initiate programs for the raising of sheep, turtles, and the giant clam. Enough of the buildings have been repaired to house the thirty employees and their families. The rest range from foundations to just general disrepair, victims of time and hurricanes.

Before moving about in a Fijian village it is necessary to do sevusevu or the offering of yaqona (kava root) to the turaga ni koro (chief of the village). A presentation in Fijian and some cobo (claps) go along with it. If it's afternoon, you may be invited to wait while the yaqona is ground up and turned into the national grog of Fiji, kava. Many yachties say it tastes like dishwater. I'm sure a Fijian would say, "That's the difference between you and us: we don't drink dishwater."

Whatever the taste, it's an honor to be invited and they take it all quite seriously as they do most Fijian customs. For instance, when in the village, no bare shoulders, no hats, no sunglasses, and no packs on your back, and no shoes in the bure (house). A little leeway is given to the dumb yachtie, though.

We wandered about this sad portion of South Pacific history, brightened now by the laugh of Fijian children and the work of the station. Large tanks were everywhere, filled either with clams or small turtles. The clams, which get to about two feet across, are simply placed in the bay where the tide will take their millions of eggs out to sea. The turtles grow to about eighteen inches in three years and are tagged and released throughout the islands. This proliferation of life is made even more meaningful by the 1,500 crosses on the hill and the island's fifty year history of misery.

KORO  I had just returned from delivering the bulk of a four foot mahimahi to the nearest house on shore when the first boat arrived. It was a large piece of galvanized corrugated roofing bent double and nailed shut on the ends. Constant camber has got nothin' on these guys. "Come to shore. My friends want to do a Meke (dance) for you and give you pawpaws." "My name is Ananaiasi," he yelled. "Na yacaqu ko Harry," I replied. "You speak Fijian," he screamed, getting so excited he almost tipped his canoe over. Little did he know I had just used up half of my first week's lesson. On shore I was greeted by six men with palm frond hats who proceeded to do the vaka malolo or sitting dance. Another dozen or so men and women joined in. Kids ran everywhere, all with comic palm frond glasses. (What can't a coconut tree do?) A palm frond basket with papayas and coconuts was handed me with flowers interwoven in the fronds. At that moment I knew we had made the right decision in bypassing Suva. Long after dark I dinghied the last three home from the boat and when Mary complained how tired it made her, I couldn't help but comment that Fiji is just a warmup for the Solomons.

Ananaiasi and his corrugated canoe

Loosely translated, Koro means "Village Island," probably because there are fourteen villages on this one small island. As it turns out, the chiefs of six of them were on the other side having a meeting when we went in, so we made sevusevu with the chief's wife. We also gave some of the kids clothes we had brought from New Zealand and this added a new Fijian word to my vocabulary: solevu, or the exchange of gifts. Immediately we were laden with bananas, papaws and cassava (arrowroot.) Again that night the cockpit was crammed with boys and young men playing my guitar and singing songs of Fiji. It was very dark when they sang "Isa Lea," the Fijian equivalent of "Goodnight Ladies" and the signal that it was time for them to go.

Guitars into the night...

Walking into Nabasovi village the next day, I met an old man on the road. "How are you?" I said in Fijian. He smiled and pointed back down the road. Hmmm, let's see. The Q is pronounced NGG, the C is TH, the B is MB. Back to the drawing board, or as they say here, watch your Bs and Qs.

I was on my way to visit Aminiasi and his friend who was just recovering from cigeratuera or fish poisoning. He had gone off into the army for a few years and was home on leave. The first day he caught and ate a fish that he used to eat before leaving. However, in two years, things had changed and he had to spend his entire leave sick. After a bit, they sent me off with the school teacher down to Tavua, the next village. Transferred to the hands of Josaia, the assistant Turaga, we again wandered off to the next village. Under the shade of a large tree sat a half dozen old and distinguished looking men. Women of various ages were sitting or walking about, mostly concerned with the making of kava (yaqona) in a large plastic pail. I guess the three legged tanoa bowl is reserved for more formal occasions. I sat. Introductions. Small talk. Kava. Even though I hadn't had kava since Johnnie Moa in Tonga sixteen years ago, I had boned up and knew what was expected. One cobo (clap), take the bilo (coconut shell cup), chug-a-lug, hand it back, three cobo, and say "amaca" (it's empty.) Around and around the bilo goes as my lips and tongue slowly disappear into a novacained numbness. "Can I take a photo?" "Sure! Oh, wait" as the ladies put talcum powder on the cheeks and foreheads of the old guys. "Now we take one of you!" "Oh, great," I think as talcum powder drifts in great white sheets from my face down onto my lap. Flowers appear in my ears and a shell lei is put around my neck. Coconut perfume is daubed on my neck (they must think the camera has smell-o-vision) and finally with beautiful women behind me and a few false starts, the button is pushed and held down until it reaches the end of the roll. Oh, well, maybe they'll make good Christmas presents. Josaia and I drift on home in a buzz.

Back home, Selaima has lunch ready. We sit outside on a mat and forks and plates appear despite my protest. After a modest meal of ika, dalo and rourou with lalo, I am staggered. Selaima has brought out one of her beautiful new mats as a gift. I know that this represents at least forty to sixty hours of work for her. From the ancient Tahitian comes Vanua, the Pacific Way. It's a word well suited to the overwhelming generosity of the Fijians.

SAVUSAVU  A rainy week went by while anchored up the river at Savusavu. Outside 30 knot trades blew. In between storms we sloshed through the mud street in search of fresh bread or ice cream. "Pamann," a foam sandwich Brown 34 was here. We had left them in Tonga last year, where they spent the winter. It was a forty mile beat to weather to get to the point, mostly at periscope depth. Off to starboard was a large splash. "A rock?" asks Mary. "No, it's a whale!" It breached a few hundred yards away in a huge spray of foam and water and then in the clear offshore water I could see its black torpedo shape just under the water headed straight for us. Less than two boat lengths in front of us, the whale came clear out of the water, turned over and disappeared in a display worthy of Marine World.

Then a mahimahi hit, and as I pulled him in, he climbed right up on the new swim step. As a friendly gesture I gave him a shot of rum. Obviously not able to hold his liquor, he passed out and stayed that way until 90% of him went ashore to the first person we saw at Viani Bay.

VIANI BAY  The sun is setting in Viani Bay, letting the sliver of moon overhead stand alone in the deepening blueness of the Fijian sky. The tenor sax of Stan Getz is mellowing out the busy day and a light northwesterly is cooling the land. We've just returned from Taveuni Island, eight miles across the Somosomo Strait, where the provincial office for the district of Cakaudrove lies. For each area, a yacht must have specific permission to visit. Quite a few chiefs make a big deal of looking at your paper.

We had ridden over with Jack Fisher, one of the five brothers who live around the bay. His grandfather, an American, had bought the entire peninsula at the turn of the century. He passed it to his only son, Jack's father. Normally, it's tough luck if you're a girl. Your only way to get land is to marry it. Jack's father was ahead of his time, I guess, as he also gave land to his three daughters.

Only about ten percent of the land in Fiji is freehold land which can be sold. All of the Fishers property is like this. For various reasons a few pieces have been sold to Americans and one to a Danish couple who still live on their boat out in front of the House. Accessible only by boat, it is a very quiet place to live.

However..... once every year or so, a group of traveling ministers come calling. I mean, this is Jimmy Swaggart. Oral Roberts, and Billy Graham all rolled into one night. On Friday evening, a loud speaker system left over from a "Stark Naked and the Car Thieves" concert was cranked up full volume. Where the power came from, I don't know, since there is no electricity in the bay. The sermons went on until two in the morning and included at least four playings of Handel's Messiah plus numerous Christmas carols. Lots of singing filled the space between two and five thirty when the amp came alive again for a last shot at repentance before they all left at mid morning. I have no doubt that this was one of the quietest Saturdays on record, as everyone, including us, slept all afternoon.

QAMEA ISLAND  Naviivi Bay is considered a hurricane hole and no wonder. Intensified trades outside, nary a breath inside. It has to be the most photogenic bay in Fiji. Surrounded by mangroves, it is overlooked by a small village of traditional Bures. The only eyesore to the neatly trimmed lawns and thatched houses is one tin house right in the middle. Those who have read Mathiessen's Far Tortuga will understand when I say, "Dat's progress, Mon."

Kids at Naviivi Bay

On a walk outside the village we met John Valentine and his family. He first sent his son to walk our legs off on a hike over the mountain, and then invited us back for dinner. We all ate double helpings but it didn't even dent the amount of food on the mat spread before us. They kept urging us, "Eat! Eat!" I'm sure they thought us anemic.

John Valentine Family

Young Valentine men returning from the garden

This porker was invited to dinner one night.

NAQELELEVU  On our chart, this joint looked great. One small island surrounded by an atoll five by fifteen miles in size. The last mile to the island is walk-able at low tide, discouraging most ordinary boats. A draft of a meter or less can sneak up between bommies and anchor in the lee of the island. In fact, that's just what we did. At low tide, I would jump off the boat, walk up to the anchor and give it a good tire-testing kick to make sure it was still set. Hmmm.. Maybe this is cutting it a bit too fine. The other good thing about this place is that it really is out in the boonies, fifty miles from the nearest anchorages, and I might add, fairly hard on the wind. So it was that we had an entire week to ourselves - well, at least with no other yachts. There were two old couples who lived here permanently plus one man and eight teenagers collecting beche le mer (sea cucumbers), everyone related, of course. I had met Eferemo a month or more back while anchored at Makogai. He had come alongside with an ailing outboard when first on his way out. He almost dropped his sulu when he found out he was at a completely different island than he thought. He didn't exactly inspire confidence but a change of plugs and he was off after inviting us out to Naqelelevu.

Naqelelevu anchorage - not for the deep draft boats!

What a week! We couldn't go to shore without one or the other of the old couples feeding us. One day they both fed us lunch. Definite overload. But the food: we had lobster two days in a row and then, coconut crab. The poor coconut crab is slowly becoming extinct in the Pacific, just too many people and the fact that a big mature crab might be fifty years old. Appetite overcame conscience, and we managed to eat a twenty to thirty year old. William later caught one older than I am, uhh....39. The first one they brought out and set in front of me I figured for dead. When it got up and moved, I levitated about a foot. I know that they don't really climb coconut trees and rip off coconuts, but they do manage to open old ones on the ground with that big pincer. I noticed that William treated his big one with the utmost respect when he took it out of the bag to be photographed.

Coconut crab

This place was the highlight of the trip. The water had a 100' to 200' visibility. The waxing moon would cast shadows of the boat on the white sand. Mary would swim around collecting giant spider conch. After watching them walk around under the boat for a day or so she hid them in deeper water. The only collecting of live shells we do is to bring an occasional one home and let it walk around in a clear plastic pan of water. The inhabitant is sometimes more interesting than his house. After a good eyeball, he is escorted back home.

After a week, Eferemo started watching the weather. Local knowledge says it will only blow for eight days. Sure enough, after eight days the 25 knot winds were down to steady 15 knot trades. This was critical as Eferemo planned to carry nine people, eight 40 kilogram bags of Beche le mer, a few bags of fish and a fifty gallon drum of outboard fuel in his sixteen foot boat. All this with no chart, no compass, no life jackets and no common sense. Then he proceeded to tell me that he had gotten completely lost after leaving me at Makogai. Headed for Taveuni, sixty miles to the northeast, he ended up on Ovalau, twenty miles to the southwest. It worried us to the point that we decided we would sail the seventy miles back to Taveuni and take along most of the boys. A tearful farewell to the old people, a glorious sail, a lunch of endangered giant clam (Note to Greenpeace: they supplied the lunch.) and eight hours later we dropped them off at Wairiki on Taveuni.

KIOA 
Kioa Island is owned by people from the Ellice Islands, now called Tuvalu, which is about 500 miles north of Fiji. The people definitely look more Polynesian and many of their words are the same as Tongan or Samoan. Its southerly bay is normally a deep lee anchorage but today the wind had shifted and gone light so we couldn't resist. A big weathered welcome sign made from palm fronds stood on the beach. It was left from the visit of the last cruise ship. We were curiously urged towards the meeting hall in the small village. I guess I expected a few women weaving mats, but instead, every woman and half the kids in the village sat with shells, baskets and carved canoes laid out. We have had to mail baskets home from Tonga and New Zealand just to keep afloat, but here we go again. "Alright, maybe just that one beautiful basket. What a nice shell! Mary, do you see this outrigger canoe model?"

RABI 
Pronounced Rambi (remember your Bs and Qs), the island was bought back in the early 40s for 25 grand. Unfortunately, before the new owners from Ocean Island could get relocated, the Japanese occupied their island and moved them all over the place. It wasn't until '45 that the Barnabans (from the old name for Ocean Island) finally settled in.

We attempted to check in at the one small town of Nuka but the Fijian policeman was out fishing. It was probably against the law to have crime on Saturday. I cornered an old man at the Post Office, quickly writing down the Barnaban for Hello, Goodbye, and Thank you. Determined to impress the five fine young fellows in the store, I walked in and said, "Mauri." "No, man, Bula. We're all Fijians. Have some kava." Once again the great Polynesian linguist goes down in defeat. Just before my mouth went numb from the kava, I asked why they lived here. "Oh, we're all married to local girls, the most beautiful in the Pacific." If I hadn't been to Tahiti, I guess I could agree. The people are a mixture of Polynesian and oriental with maybe a few other bits because of the war.

Four miles up the coast at Alberts Cove, a few poor families work copra. Back in French Polynesia, subsidized copra brings about $800 a ton. Here it's $200. This means that they collect 200 plus coconuts, chop them open and strip out the coconut meat, bake it in their big tin homemade ovens, and put it in a bag weighing thirty to thirty-five kg. For this they get $6.

Teresa stands about five foot two. Here black eyes sparkle when she laughs, which is often. Her face reminds me of the Kuna Indians of Panama with just a hint of the orient in her eyes. At twenty, she was probably a mirror of her pretty daughter, but at forty a diet of hard work and yams has made her a bit thick waisted. When she smiles her single top tooth hangs down. She is generous to a fault, asking for nothing and giving papaws and bananas to passing yachties. She seems typical of the Barnabans and is a definite incentive to visit the islands of the equatorial Pacific.

Teresa helps us fill our water jugs

VISOQO BAY  What a day, off the wind sailing, intensified trades, flat seas, our fifty miles over by three o'clock. We could see a village but as we only intended to spend the night, we anchored on the opposite side of the broad shallow bay. Not to be. At five, Jona and his family stopped on their way home. Soon it was "mataka tale" or see you tomorrow.

Mary drinking Kava with Tevita

Tevita, paramount chief, lives in the village of Visoqo. The village of sixty lies at the mouth of a very narrow and shallow river. Tevita (or David in English) met us, accepted our sevusevu and made us feel so much at home that I started immediately to size up the river. The tide was rising so Mary and I looked at each other and within the hour "Sugar Blues" was anchored fore and aft in the river, the first boat ever to visit. We did stick a bit of rudder in the mud at low tide but sega na leqa, no problem. Mangroves brushed at one side while a combination dock and breakwater jutted out at us from the other. It was maxed out with the curious. Jona told me that the old people, having never seen a yacht - especially one that looks like an airplane - wanted to come out. "Sure," says Capt. Dumb Dumb. I lost count of people somewhere but I was up to 47 when I took a photo, just in case the old tub went down. It reminded me of my '52 Oldsmobile after I put 4" lowering blocks in the back. Well, to be truthful, there wasn't much danger. It was so shallow that everyone could have walked back to shore if we sunk. Afterwards, Jona took us a half mile up the winding river to his village, Ravuka. In fact, most of the next day was spent at Ravuka, eating and resting, then resting and eating, with kava drinking thrown in the middle. And for the first time, the kava was mixed in a real tanoa. Three feet in diameter and perfectly hand carved from a single piece of vesi hardwood, the bowl could just have easily been turned out on a lathe. Practically the entire village waved goodbye as we slowly probed our way back over the bar on the third day.

LABASA 
Labasa vies with Nadi for third biggest town in Fiji. The population runs about three to one in favor of Indians. It is mostly one long street consisting of at least one shop selling anything you might think of. For a boat who anchors by the bridge, everything is central and convenient, shopping, diesel, gaz (propane) and water. The bad news is, you must cross a half mile mud flat which is six feet at high springs and then negotiate four miles of winding river. Even worse, tidal action never seems to clean the river upstream. Dozens of plastic bags float by and the Nissan garage oil change drains right into the river. At low tide you can see all the oil filters in the mud, still weeping oil. Its no wonder we were only the second yacht they could remember.

KIA ISLAND 
In the two year old "A Yachtsman's Fiji," Michael Calder described an unspoiled island that he was the first to visit. When we arrived the locals said, "Oh, you just missed the four yachts that left yesterday." "Thanks, Michael." It really isn't that bad, I guess. We were number seven this year and considering that 600 yachts come to Fiji each year, that's very small. Kia is about 15 miles off the mainland of Vanua Levu and suffers from the same major problem, drought. Each of the three villages has rain catchment and a well, but only one well is still grudgingly producing water and it has to be boiled. Three years ago a cyclone took their coconuts and now, just as they are ready again, a fire swept the island and set them back another three years. When we gave the yaqona or kava for sevusevu, the chief asked if he could please have some water too. A real switch, islanders asking us for water. The next day was a Sunday so we hiked with Savenaca over the blackened mountain to Yaro for church and a two kilo lunch. Of course, before we could leave the next day, almost all of Dakau village came out. They do like these funny boats. 

YADUA Eight miles off Vanua Levu, Yadua would be our last stop before the long sixty mile haul to Viti Levu and the port of Lautoka. (Hey, sixty miles is a long way for a cruiser, you know.) This would be the first time we would not have a permit for visiting but the turaga ni koro (chief of the village) just took my sevusevu, shrugged his shoulders and handed me a giant bowl of kava. After my ears were numb, we were allowed to go see Pita and sign his official yacht persons book. "This island does not get many visiting yachts," says Calder. Ha! We were number 22 for this year. Pita is warden for the green crested iguana, a rare protected species found only on Jadua Taba, a small island close by. He'll take you if you have obtained the necessary permit but you still have to pay about thirty bucks in gas money for his outboard. We bought a postcard.

You can huff and puff but you can't blow down a Fijian bure.

After a few more peaceful nights in a few more of Yadua's beautiful bays, we blasted off in intensified trades. It was definitely multihull weather. All three ordinary boats changed plans and stayed in bed. As the day progressed our 25 knot southeasterly changed to an eight knot northwester and we drifted into Lautoka harbor just at lights out. 

LAUTOKA Neisau Marina, even in its present state of disrepair, is a far cry better than the old days when you had to bring your boat into Queens wharf to check in. It does have hot showers, cold beer, water, fuel and is a short walk from town, close enough to paradise for most yachties. Much bigger than Labasa, Lautoka is still similar in that it is a mostly Indian town. Exotic odors of currys drift out of every eating shop and the streets are crowded with women wearing gorgeous saris or the two piece salwaar khamiz. Gold abounds in nose rings, earrings, and gold coin necklaces. So different from the Fijians, the Indians reflect an unfriendly, pushy and agressive attitude. Almost without exception, thry refuse to meet your eyes on the street and even rarer do I get a smile out of those who do. Somehow these two cultures survive with minimum conflict.

A Brown 37 and Sugar Blues at anchor off Lautoka.

With permission to visit the Yasawa Group granted, we headed out to what used to be Dick's Place. Up to now, the most boats in an anchorage with us was three, and that was rare. Lautoka, of course, is a port of entry so we expected the thirty boats there. Dick's Place, I knew, was now Musket Cove Yacht Club and even though I was aware of th upcoming MCYC to Vila race, I was unprepared for the eighty yachts at anchor. Forty of these were here to see how much they could drink before leaving in the race, and the other forty were there supporting this activity.

A love for music pervades all of Fiji

The lone multihull had come up from New Zealand with us. It was a Chris Mashford design from Oz, built just north of Brisbane. It's a gorgeous example of a modern cruising trimaran and the workmanship is undeniably perfect. Its finest feature that I can personally attest to is its built-in beer making kit with unlimited (as I remember) supply. As a side note, I later heard it came in fourth, beat only by three much larger racing boats in what was essentially a light wind race.

YASAWAS 
I must say in all fairness that I was quite prepared to not like the Yasawas. Closely located with the chain of resort islands that dot Nadi waters, the Yasawas probably see more of the "resort cruiser" or "holiday yachtie" than any other group. The majority of the two hundred plus boats that pass through these villages stop only for the day to give sevusevu and some even avoid that. In spite of it all, the villagers respond in the typical vaka e taukei, or the Fijian way.

By the third village, we were already overwhelmed by the sheer number of visitors, most wanting to see the funny boat. Fijian history boasts the most powerful outriggers of the Pacific, the drua. (ndrua) It was up to eighty feet in length and carried 200 warriors at fifteen knots. So I was quite honored to find people calling us drua tolu, tolu being three. In Tonga, I was told that they used the same word for trimaran and testicle. This seems infinitely better.

SOMOSOMO 
The hook was just down at Somosomo but from the boat the village looked abandoned. Not a single person was visible. We prepared to go ashore but even as we dressed two local boats entered the bay, just back from Lautoka we found out, where they had picked up the body of a Somosomo villager who had died in an accidental fire. The smaller lead boat held maybe ten people, one standing on top holding a large black banner. The second larger village cargo boat was packed as it could be, thirty or forty people minimum plus luggage and supplies. No one spoke a word, not even any of the large number of children. Most averted their eyes as they passed us and anchored. Again, not a movement or word as the casket was unloaded from the lead boat and taken ashore in the hot tropical sun. Four men stood solemnly with the casket on their shoulders while the villagers slowly appeared and sat quietly in the shade of the palm trees. The only sound heard as we quietly departed to a nearby bay was that of the wooden lali (drum) beating out a mournful solo note.

Death among Fijians has both social and religious importance to those left behind. As with us it brings together those separated by time and distance but it also acts as a time to generate new interest in kin and village responsibilities. It's also a good time to get those who have failed to participate back on the ball. Sudden death by accident is often blamed on supernatural beings so the assistance of a drauvagunu is sought. This guy is sort of a seer who can communicate with the spirit world but instead of a crystal ball, he uses specially prepared yaqona. I always suspected that if I drank enough kava I would start seeing things. The customs of death sometimes include a yadra (wake) with mournful hymns or beating the lali or blowing the davui (conch shell). Sometimes noise is tabu, and no animal is allowed to come near. Anyone who handles the body has to undergo cleansing before he can touch food. The scene of death may be occupied for as long as 100 days by a bouta, usually a good friend. During this time he can't touch food with his hands. Later, when he washes himself, that area of sea becomes tabu for fishing. There is a great deal more until finally a burua or funeral feast is given for all those who paid their respects.

The more we study Fijian culture the more we look back and see little errors we have made; sitting next to the chief or entering the bure through the wrong door. Each Pacific culture is so unique that it's almost impossible for a poor dumb yachtie to get it all right. Mostly if you treat them with respect they will respond with Fijian loma soli or open heart.

Mostly light winds took us up through the rest of the Yasawas including the beautiful but very overrated "Blue Lagoon" made famous by Brooke Shields. We timed ourselves to be back in Yalobi at Waya Island for a fifteen village rugby contest. The two days of games were good, the barbeque food kakana vinaka, but the highlight was a meke put on by a neighboring village. At least fifty people in full costume sang and danced. War clubs, spears and fans were all part of this celebration of thanks to the hosting village. This was competition quality. When at the end, they sat and began to sing the haunting Isa Lea, I could only think how appropriate it was. In a few swiftly passing days we would once again have to leave islands that we had grown to love. A return next year was certain, perhaps with a few more words and perhaps with just a little better understanding of this unique culture that makes up the Fijian way.