Some days pass at Wakaya, more swimming in the very alive reef, sneering at the kayakers and discovering an area of rot surrounding the deck’s upper structure. Michela and me get very busy with chisel and hammer, eradicating the likely result of years and months of kiwi rainfall. Once we reorganize and feel like we got to see everything there is in this anchorage (and being fed-up to be surrounded by such filthy rich weirdos) we move on, destination Makongai, another small island a few miles north, ex leprosy colony and now who knows.
It’s another pleasant sail through the reef and on to the dark shape not so far away. We pass Makongai’s NW entrance and sail in, toward what looks like a very pristine, sparsely inhabited, nicely sheltered little bay. The anchor goes in the crystal water and as soon as possible we get ready to go ashore, hopeful to find a better reception than the other islands. We have about 15 bags of kava but we bring just four for starters, we don’t want to give our stash away to potentially unfriendly/indifferent people.
We reach the jetty undisturbed, soon we are approached and as custom we request to see the chief and perform our Sevusevu. We take a seat in the communal home, where talk and ceremony is usually performed, the village is drowsy in the midday heat, we re told it’s lunchtime and so we’ll have to wait a little for the chief.
Soon enough a stocky man, grey hair and dignified pace arrives carrying two papayas. We are expecting another long ceremony full of warnings (don’t wear this, don’t go there), instead before we even introduce ourselves we are handed the papayas, quick introductions, and Tomasi takes us to his home. Definitely a different approach that what we had so far. Everyone is informal and very friendly, we have a nice chat with Tomasi, he lets us take a shower in the back of his home (shower our only intended request), he reassures us that we can stay as long as we please, go around without restrictions, and that we’ll all have an evening together the day after. The island is now a facility for breeding and repopulation of giant clams and turtles, an Australian project.
We’ll end up spending some wonderful days in the company of marvellous people, playing soccer with the kids, jumping off the jetty, playing diesel drums with sticks and collecting a few giant clam-shells. Tomasi takes me in the jungle for a one-on-one session of learning on how to get food in the bush. Making sticks to get down popos and cocoanuts, how to spot cut and suck on a sugarcane stalk, how to make a basket out of palm fronds to carry it all away. On my own later I go on collecting some wild chillies and lemon tree leafs for tea, while discovering abandoned machinery and a few secluded leper’s huts still standing, overlooking the sea…considering that at the height of the colony five thousand people lived there with steady supplies, cottages on the beach, more fruit in the bush and fish in the sea than they could ever use and even an open air movie theatre, their life couldn’t have been all that bad.
On Friday we’re all invited to dinner at the settlement: tons of crabs, breadfruit, cassava, yams. It’s us, Tomasi’s family, some workers, and a visiting pastor from Suva who came by from the actual village on the opposite side of the island.
After the gargantuan dinner we all settle in the porch, smoking quietly thin cigarettes of locally grown tobacco wrapped in slivers of newspaper while someone strums a guitar. We expect to have a few bowls of Yaqona (Kava), but we’re informed that they wiped out the four bags we brought the night before, and there’s none at all in the entire village.
Naturally, being the occasion so perfect (the dinner, friends, guitars, and a sliver of moon turning the bay silver), I sprint out to get the remaining eleven bags, figuring that we won’t get an occasion better than this to put them to good use.
The pastor asks to visit the yacht, and I oblige, happy to do just about anything to please such amazing hosts. We get the bags and the atmosphere cheers up. More guitars appear, a ukulele, a mandolin, spoons as drums. Off go the bilos (bowls) at a steady pace, in between sweet melodies of traditional Fijian favourites. The girls join in and the melodies get sweeter and sweeter, while me and Tomasi talk about life, the sea and fishing in Fiji and in other distant lands. We are now adorned by fronds and our faces get smeared with talcum among giggling we can’t understand. (Later I’ll find out is a tradition whenever “staying up late with the girls”). It takes a while, but eventually we manage to finish the songbook and the eleven bags of Kava. Time for sweet dreams while the moon sets behind the rocks.
It’s another pleasant sail through the reef and on to the dark shape not so far away. We pass Makongai’s NW entrance and sail in, toward what looks like a very pristine, sparsely inhabited, nicely sheltered little bay. The anchor goes in the crystal water and as soon as possible we get ready to go ashore, hopeful to find a better reception than the other islands. We have about 15 bags of kava but we bring just four for starters, we don’t want to give our stash away to potentially unfriendly/indifferent people.
We reach the jetty undisturbed, soon we are approached and as custom we request to see the chief and perform our Sevusevu. We take a seat in the communal home, where talk and ceremony is usually performed, the village is drowsy in the midday heat, we re told it’s lunchtime and so we’ll have to wait a little for the chief.
Soon enough a stocky man, grey hair and dignified pace arrives carrying two papayas. We are expecting another long ceremony full of warnings (don’t wear this, don’t go there), instead before we even introduce ourselves we are handed the papayas, quick introductions, and Tomasi takes us to his home. Definitely a different approach that what we had so far. Everyone is informal and very friendly, we have a nice chat with Tomasi, he lets us take a shower in the back of his home (shower our only intended request), he reassures us that we can stay as long as we please, go around without restrictions, and that we’ll all have an evening together the day after. The island is now a facility for breeding and repopulation of giant clams and turtles, an Australian project.
We’ll end up spending some wonderful days in the company of marvellous people, playing soccer with the kids, jumping off the jetty, playing diesel drums with sticks and collecting a few giant clam-shells. Tomasi takes me in the jungle for a one-on-one session of learning on how to get food in the bush. Making sticks to get down popos and cocoanuts, how to spot cut and suck on a sugarcane stalk, how to make a basket out of palm fronds to carry it all away. On my own later I go on collecting some wild chillies and lemon tree leafs for tea, while discovering abandoned machinery and a few secluded leper’s huts still standing, overlooking the sea…considering that at the height of the colony five thousand people lived there with steady supplies, cottages on the beach, more fruit in the bush and fish in the sea than they could ever use and even an open air movie theatre, their life couldn’t have been all that bad.
On Friday we’re all invited to dinner at the settlement: tons of crabs, breadfruit, cassava, yams. It’s us, Tomasi’s family, some workers, and a visiting pastor from Suva who came by from the actual village on the opposite side of the island.
After the gargantuan dinner we all settle in the porch, smoking quietly thin cigarettes of locally grown tobacco wrapped in slivers of newspaper while someone strums a guitar. We expect to have a few bowls of Yaqona (Kava), but we’re informed that they wiped out the four bags we brought the night before, and there’s none at all in the entire village.
Naturally, being the occasion so perfect (the dinner, friends, guitars, and a sliver of moon turning the bay silver), I sprint out to get the remaining eleven bags, figuring that we won’t get an occasion better than this to put them to good use.
The pastor asks to visit the yacht, and I oblige, happy to do just about anything to please such amazing hosts. We get the bags and the atmosphere cheers up. More guitars appear, a ukulele, a mandolin, spoons as drums. Off go the bilos (bowls) at a steady pace, in between sweet melodies of traditional Fijian favourites. The girls join in and the melodies get sweeter and sweeter, while me and Tomasi talk about life, the sea and fishing in Fiji and in other distant lands. We are now adorned by fronds and our faces get smeared with talcum among giggling we can’t understand. (Later I’ll find out is a tradition whenever “staying up late with the girls”). It takes a while, but eventually we manage to finish the songbook and the eleven bags of Kava. Time for sweet dreams while the moon sets behind the rocks.
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