The Local Store
p. 62 · Read in the full issue
By “Amel”
AFTER plodding a couple of miles along a winding road, fording an extremely muddy creek, braving the snarling dogs in the Fijian village, and negotiating two slippery coconut logs placed at an angle that makes a double somersault almost inevitable, you come to our local store.
It is not an imposing building. Corru gated iron buildings seldom are. It stands a little way off the road. Bushes of brilliant red hibiscus give colour to the section. A horse, a few fowls and a vege table garden are dotted, here and there.
The hefty Chinese proprietor shuffles out in his heel-less sandals to greet you at the door. He gives you a large grin and washes his hands with invisible soap.
Inside the store, you seat yourself com fortably on a case of trade salmon, and
get an eyeful of the dazzling contents oi shelves and show-cases.
Tinned fruit, pilchards, meat and jam rub shoulders with packets of tea, bottles of Chinese sauce, tins of water-lily roots, boxes of every dead fish and jars or highly-coloured boiled lollies. An odd glass case is devoted to copra knives and canvas shoes. Whales’ teeth and paper leis swing idly in a corner.
The shelves are crammed with all sorts of materials, from khaki to crepe-de chine. On the counter stands a glass case containing a wonderful jumble of soap, hair oil, face powder, toothbrushes, babies’ comforters, electric torches, fishing lines, wooden combs, ribbons, hankies, vanish ing cream, beads, bow ties and a hundred other articles that you would never ex pect to see in such an outlandish spot.
The rows of gaudy frocks suspended on hangers from the cross-beams are de signed by the proprietor, who obviously doesn’t care two hoots whether pink and yellow fight with each other or not!
On one of the glass cases, some notices are pasted. There is one telling of the dire penalties which will befall any young Fijian girl who remains in the store after a certain hour each night. Another notice announces that a bazaar will be held in a distant village at an, early date.
The gist of the third notice is that you mustn’t spit on the floor ... a dictum continually disregarded by no less a per son that the storekeeper himself!
We, who live far away from the thrill of “real” shops, find the local store a fascinating place. It may be small, tumble-down and shabby, but it has a friendly atmosphere. It shows its wares as proudly as if they were the best on earth; and we feel, as we hang over the counter, that it beats anything they’ve got in Pitt Street.