"A Drive Around Rotuma"

By Amel

LEAVING Motusa after lunch, with Vaimarasi at the wheel of the truck, we set off on a leisurely drive around the “larger” part of the island.

Out to the left sparkled the placid waters inside the reef, and standing boldly against the sky like a miniature Rock of Gibraltar was Sororoa, 750 ft., the highest “mountain” on the mainland of Rotuma.

A few miles out to sea was the dark, mysterious-looking island of Uea, which topped Sororoa by 50 ft.

The road ran along the level for a short distance and then climbed a steep hill, on the top of which was the Government Station, Ahou. This station, with its buildings set amid smooth green lawns, beautiful flowers and handsome trees, and with the deep green of the Rotuma bush for a background, must be one of the most attractive in the Fiji Group. There is a wonderful view of the narrow isthmus which links the two parts of this quaintly shaped island, and of the Bay and the anchorage at Motusa. Sunshine makes a delightful play of colour in the clear water. The foam of the unsleeping surf encloses the Bay, and beyond it is the glorious blue of the deep sea. The scene by moonlight has an unbelievable splendour.

From Ahou, the road descended the other side of the hill, and then traversed more level country for several miles. We had all the afternoon at our disposal, so Vaimarasi did not try to break any speed records.

The truck ambled along the hard, white coral road that wound past coconut groves, clumps of banana trees and masses of the lush tropical flora for which the island is noted.

Here, a three-foot stone wall, built of pieces of volcanic rock, protected some body’s garden, where yams, taro, paw paw and tapioca jostled each other, and water-melons ripened in the sunshine on the rock-strewn ground. Further on, the same kind of stone wall was a pig fence —a large pig fence, where dozens of small pigs ran squealing, while their mothers lay in the shade of the forest trees and

were too blase to raise an eyebrow at the noisy truck.

We passed sprawling villages, and vil lages whose smallness scarcely merited the name, and the houses therein were a queer mixture of the neat and the slovenly, the clean and the squalid.

Rarely did we see a village with houses of a more or less uniform style, as in Fiji. There were sago leaf houses with iron roofs, corrugated iron houses with sago palm roofs, wooden houses with thatched or iron roofs, limestone houses with various kinds of roofing material and houses that had fallen into such a decrepit state that they were houses no longer. We thought the most picturesque house was the one of white-washed lime stone, with red-painted roof, walls two feet thick and flowers and gay crotons growmg around it.

But the appearance of every village, no matter what the condition of the houses it contained, was always enhanced by its

trees—frangipanni, flamboyant, bread

fruit, kapok, mango, fawa and those magnificent dilo trees which overhang most of the beaches, and are such a feature of the Rotuma landscape.

IT has been said that Rotuma is an island of flies and tombstones, and it must be admitted that both are numerous. The cemetery was con spicuous in every village we passed, how ever small, and, although the graves were usually too close together, the tombstones were often extremely elaborate. Some were cement, the work of local craftsmen, but many were of marble, and imported direct from Sydney in bygone years.

Some Rotumans have quaint ideas about what is a fitting cover for their dead. In the Motusa cemetery, for instance, one of the tombstones consists of a cement house, large enough for people to enter, and complete with iron roof, glass win dows with green curtains, and seats inside so that if they wish, bereaved persons may sit there, near the deceased.

This is a favourite Rotuman custom.

Parents of a dead child will sleep along side its grave and keep a lantern burning all night, so that it will hot be lonely or frightened. Unlike many native races, Rotumans appear to have no super stitious fear of their dead. rE truck wandered slowly along. Fowls, pigs and ducks removed themselves from its path, but Vaimarasi had to make loud noises at a cow which stood on the road swishing its tail and regard ing us thoughtfully.

We took time off to say hello to our Branch storekeepers, and at Lopta we inspected the locally famous swimming pool, which is a popular picnicking place at low tide, when the water in the pool, fed by an underground spring, is almost fresh. But when we saw it, the tide was high, with a heavy swell running. Every wave thundered through a narrow channel in the rocks, and into another aperture, to foam half-way up the glistening black sides of the pool, which was shrouded in misty spray. It was, in fact, the last place one would choose for a swim.

We passed villages whose strange names spelt Mystery and Romance—Jumi Jumi, Malha’aa, Oinafa, Noatau—and near Kalvaka we came to Rotuma’s “river,” which has all the appearance of being a wide, shallow river, until suddenly the sea is visible at one end. When the tide is on the ebb, the illusion is complete.

Actually, the “river” is a channel, half a mile long and 100 yards wide, lying be tween the mainland and the high, heavily wooded island of Solkope.

JUST past Pepjei, the imposing build ings of the Sumi Catholic Mission came into view. A long wall enclosed the large compound. Vaimarasi took the truck through the entrance gates, and presently we were greeting the Rev.

Father G. Griffon, and the three Sisters.

As at Upu, its sister Mission in Motusa, the Sisters teach the Rotuman children at school, and one, Sister M. Pierre, is a diligent worker for the Child Welfare -Movement. The cheery, friendly Sisters, five altogether, form a unique community, in that they represent five different nations —England, New Zealand, France, America and Italy.

As we left Sumi, and went down the gentle slope again, out on to the road, the afternoon was drawing to a close. In the villages, Rotumans were grating coco nuts for their fowls, or taking baskets of food to the pigs. rE truck seemed to be moving faster.

We were at Savlei, and simply whizzed past Feavoi.

Then came Lau —an attractive village, always so neat and clean —and, finally, we were back where we had started, only this time Sororoa was on our right, and on our left was the gaunt, furrowed face of Kelega Point, with the creamy surf beating high against it, and rushing on to the lovely little beach at Mofmanu.