Simplicity

A Trading Trip Among Unspoiled Islands of Fiji

By M. Christian

rE sun was. saying good-night to the day in. a glorious burst of gold and purple as I sailed from Suva Har bour in the “Moce Vakaca” for the fur thermost part of the Fiji Group—the island of Ono-i-lau.

Ono-i-lau is about 200 miles south east of Suva and the trip was partly pleasure and partly a trading venture. In the hold of the cutter was a goodly sup ply of biscuits, tinned goods and cotton materials and I anticipated making a fair profit as well as having a thoroughly enjoyable sea trip. ‘The cutter was about 10 tons and car ried only sail, so I was unable to give any definite date of my return —I was just content to draw deep breaths of fresh sea air and sun my body on the small deck space. I did not care if the trip went on indefinitely: we had plenty of food: I could wear as little as I liked, and being completely at home in the Fijian language and customs, I looked forward with the deepest sense of plea sure to the weeks ahead.

It took the “Moce Vakaca” three weeks to reach Ono-i-lau; weeks of sheer lazi ness, sometimes becalmed for a few days with nothing in sight but the glassy sur face of the sea, hardly broken by a ripple. Occasionally a turtle came to

the surface and floated lifelessly for a few minutes, then dived out of sight, and once in the distance I noticed some whales spouting.

The meaning of the cutter’s name in the Fijian language is “bad night’s sleep.”

But the sturdy little craft was mis named, for I never before enjoyed such peaceful nights of unbroken sleep—no vibration, and the only sounds were the flap of the sails, creaking ropes and the sonorous voice of the steersman as he gave orders to change tack.

ACTUALLY, the trading trip was not a great success, as the natives were just recovering from the effects of a severe hurricane, and had very little produce to barter. But, with true Fijian hospitality, they did me well with great dishes of prawns curried in coconut milk, fish cooked in the earth ovens (which enables all the delicious flavour of the fish to be retained) and plenty of native vegetables, cooked in the same manner.

These primitive ovens still hold pride of place with the natives of Fiji. Great stones are heated, and then all charred wood and ashes are raked away and the food, wrapped in layers of banana or taro leaves, placed on top of the hot stones; then more layers of leaves; and, lastly, the whole covered with sand or earth. The food can be left for hours and when the natives are ready to have their meal, the sand is raked away and the bundles of leaves containing the fish, fowl, or whatever the dish may be, as well as the vegetables, are lifted out, piping hot, and all the flavours preserved.

Being the guest of honour on the island, I was entertained to a meke (dance) of some twenty girls and, believe me, they were the picked belles of the place. Beautiful figures, clad only in a gaily-coloured skirt of croton leaves, with hibiscus or franji-pani in their hair and leis about their necks, they swayed in perfect unison, expressing the theme of the dance. The meke which most appealed to me represented waves breaking on the seashore.

First, the girls crouched low and made little rushes, like the small ripples of the tide coming up the beach; then the rushes became stronger, as if the waves were gathering force as the tide rose higher; until the finale of white foam, on the crest of the big waves, dashing up in full force and breaking against the rocks on the shore, was perfectly illus trated by small girls with white tapa wound round their heads, perched on the backs of the older girls.

AT last, the time came to bid farewell, and we heaved up the anchor to the haunting strains of “Isa Lei.”

The song reminded me of a chorus played on a grand organ, so wonderfully did the deep base of the male voices harmonise with the sweeter notes of the women.

On the way home, the trip was un eventful, except for an amazing example of the native command over the inhabit ants of the deep.

I had often heard of Fijians calling turtle to the surface, and I have actually seen it accomplished. But, on this occa sion, I saw a shark called right along side the “Moce Vacaka.” It happened this way.

We were becalmed, midway between the islands of Totoya and Moala, about 100 miles from Suva, and, for something to do, I climbed to the cross-piece to have a look around. The crew were seated about the deck, some sleeping, others yarning, and a few playing their favourite game of cards. As my gaze idly searched the broad expanse of sea, calm and smooth as a mirror, I noticed the dorsal fin of a shark, about 150

yards away. Judging by the size of the fin, I estimated the shark to be some twenty feet long.

I called out to the native skipper that there was a large shark nearby. He looked up, with a smile, and asked if I would like to have a closer look. I tauntingly told him to whistle it up, as I had heard of such tales.

He prepared some native grog and poured some of the liquid over the side of the boat, at the same time chanting some unintelligible words, and in less than a twinkling of an eye the shark was right alongside and I could have touched it with my hand.

I ran to my cabin and got a hook, and, having no bait, I opened a tin of corned meat and tore off a piece of my mosquito net to hold, inserted the hook and ran to the side of the vessel. The shark turned away in disdain, and the Fijians laughed and told me I could not hope to hook the shark as it was “Daka waqa” (meaning, the devil). I then tried to lassoo the shark, but it merely swam round the other side.

Presently, the skipper poured some more grog over the side, accompanied by the weird chant; and, with a flick of its tail, the shark disappeared, and I saw it no more.

The impression with which I stepped ashore after my trip was the futility of striving for what we call the comforts of civilisation, when the real simplicity and meaning of life are so amply demon strated by a handful of native men and women, happy as the day is long, with plenty to eat and drink, glorious sun shine and freedom, and with no financial worries.

An old New Guinea resident, Mr. J.

Guy Lowe, formerly a plantation manager in New Britain, has sent us what he be lieves to be the last “Permit to Leave” issued in New Guinea prior to the Japanese invasion and the evacuation of the Administration. It is No. 6,426, and it was issued to Mr. Lowe by the Collector of Customs, at Wau, on January 23, 1943 Mr. Lowe is keeping it as a curiosity. But as the permit to return does not expire until January 23, 1944, Mr. Lowe still has hopes that he may yet make use of it Has anyone got a “Permit to Leave” dated after January 23, 1942?

Recent official departures from New Caledonia include M. Puaux (head of the Economic Bureau and former Vice-Con sul in Sydney, transferred to Pretoria); M. Gaillard (head of Finance Depart ment, transferred to Central Africa); Major and Madame Redel and Captain Da Costa.