My Old

Suva

Flame

By Geoffrey Shepherd

I WONDER, if I went back to Suva, whether I’d find my old Flame still there?

During the 30’s it was a definite Suva landmark, but many such landmarks, which I remember with affection, like the grog shops along Victoria Parade, have now disappeared.

The Flame was a huge, spreading and shady Poinciana that bordered Victoria Parade near the edge of the lagoon, by the fire-station. This tree had a char acter of its own and its name was appro priate.

From far off at sea you could see this mass of red —a vivid splash of colour that stood out sharply from Suva’s waterfront.

From the two seats beneath it and sheltered from the glare of a strident sun, it offered you rest and relaxation. It was a favourite haunt of mine, as it also was of many others who lived in Suva, or passed through in those days.

There was something peculiar about that tree. It affected you in a strange way; it seemed to emanate a spirit of friendliness and camaraderie. And those who stopped to linger and seek rest under its soothing mass of red, unbent, and disregarded for the moment, any social distinction. And that is saying much for hide-bound Suva. So the civil servant and the old-timer who basked in the glory of better days gone by, met, more or less, on equal footing. Tourist and beachcomber, civil servant, trader and missionary—they all fell under the spell of the Flame.

Yes, it was a good place for musing. If there were room you could take your choice of the two seats. You could take the one that faced Victoria Parade, and watch the polyglot population of Suva come and pass by. Or you could take the

other, turn your back on the town, and gaze at a scene far more peaceful—that of Suva’s lovely harbour, its crumbling line of reef in the distance, and, far be yond on the horizon, wild and rugged mountains rising seemingly out of the sea.

I recall the spectacle of when the Flame threw off its sparks—the mass of petals that blanketed the earth in a gentle red sward. It was a brilliant, glorious sight. Sometimes, especially in the evenings, a reddish luminous haze seemed to envelop the tree.

Should I ever return to Suva, then the Flame will be my first objective. As I pass through the town, I will close my eyes to the pubs, and just before I turn into Victoria Parade, I will hold my breath, cross my fingers—and hope that my old Flame is still there.

THOSE who are fond of “Gerry” Adams —and their name is legion—felt that they must fasten on to their old friend’s leg, when it was officially an nounced that Fiji’s international airport would be removed from Nadi (near Lau toka) to the Point (near Suva).

Mr. Adams, who has fought like a hero for his Lautoka, as against the siren charms of colourful Suva, has done every thing possible to keep the trans-Pacific traffic flowing through Nadi.

“Tui” Johnson telegraphed his sympathy to “Gerry,” and complacently added that the future airfield would be near his front door. (“Tui” has just built a new house on the hill beyond Suva.) “Gerry” re plied acidly: “Fondly hope that first air craft will fly right through it!”

“Gerry” got a lot of telegrams and finally, fed up, he wired to Public Rela tions Officer Usher, in Suva: “Messages of condolence should be clearly marked Nadi airport and not addressed to in dividuals, particularly me.”