Yasawa Saga

by John Rolley.

NO one seems to know the reason for the mysterious Chinese writing on the wall in the Yasawa caves. So Bill and I set out from Suva in a 30 ft stainless steel yacht to explore the islands of the Yasawa group. These islands are breathtaking in their unspoiled loveliness.

They are surrounded by subterranean coral jungles, whose mazes of polyps passages, and pinnacles are treacherous traps for ships of any draught.

We were precariously anchored on the eastern coast of Naviti, in a coral locked lake, while the wind blew half a gale.

Bill was constantly worried about the safety of the sea-apple of his eye. He’d welded every seam of this stainless steel craft, built every bit himself lovingly.

She was certainly a successful and sea worthy sailing boat—a yawl.

Going to and from our anchorage, and the village of Marou, in the little rustless skiff, was each time fraught with the possibility of getting wet or even swamped.

One day I took off on my own, and followed a track up into the hills. After walking for about three miles. I came upon a small cluster of thatched huts and houses on a low ridge. Someone was moving about outside. It seemed to me unusual for anyone to be living so far away from a village. Fijians are gregar ious folk. But an explanation soon followed.

AS I approached the doorway of the nearest house, I saw sitting just inside, on the mat, an old woman.

She had long straight brown hair, also the skin and features of a European.

The hair which grew at the front was rolled into a small bun and pinned right on top of her head. Her shoulders were weather-worn, her body gaunt but well preserved. She was hunched forward picking at some black tobacco leaves with her long skinny fingers.

She looked up at me and said in per fectly good English “Come in. However did you find your way here?” Apparently she was blind in one eye, because it was covered with an opaque film. The other eye was bright, and blue. Her top teeth were gone in the front, but at the sides they were pointed and discoloured.

I went in and sat down on the mat.

There, were several kids, one old man (who also had a cataract over one eye) and two dogs, occupying the floor space.

As conversation ensued I learned that the woman’s maiden name was Clara Wade and that her parents had been farmers in New Zealand. More than 50 years ago Clara had gone to Suva for a holiday. There she met—and married —a Fijian from the Yasawa group. They went to live in Naviti where she had been ever since.

“I hear from my sister sometimes; my old man’s still alive,” Clara said. “They seem to be sorry for me, but I wouldn’t go back. It’s cold over there too.” She chuckled, and fumbled with the tobacco shreds.

Clara told me modestly that she had eight children and 27 grandchildren, one of whom was soon to be married. I should have liked to ask the old lady a lot more questions, but on such a brief acquaintance it would have seemed im pertinent.

A fire burned in one corner, near the open doorway. Occasionally a cloud of smoke would drift amongst us and cause us all to screw up our eyes. There were one or two pots of water heating.

Although Clara seemed to have adopted the habits, language etc. of her husband’s people, she had added something too.

Through the open door I could see about two acres of land which had been plowed and cropped, some working bullocks, a couple of milking cows, and scores of chickens. Clara told me they grew rice, the hill type, and pointed to about two dozen sacks full, stacked in the gloom at the far end of the house.

A chicken wandered in and made a few abortive pecks at the fleas on a dog’s belly. It was just about to make a start on a dish of cold boiled bananas, but a kid grabbed it and flung it out of the door. It squawked and landed on its neck. A woman, soft and brown of skin, with a grubby length of material cover ing her pregnancy, came in from another hut and made a pot of tea. Her hair was black and straight, but stood out from her head like a gollywog’s. “One of my girls” Clara explained. So we sipped at bowls of tea and fresh cow’s milk, and ate the boiled bananas the chicken didn’t have.

BEFORE leaving I had a look round outside. There were plenty of mango trees, lemons, mandarins and bananas. A small pig, showing the whites of his eyes as he watched me suspiciously, rubbed himself with enjoy ment on a mechanical gadget, crudely made of logs, for threshing the rice.

I promised to send some carrot and other vegetable seeds ashore to Clara before we sailed from Naviti.

I said too, “I guess plenty of other people would like to do just what you’ve done with your life, but they haven’t got what it takes to actually get around to doing it. You’ve found peace and happiness in a mad world. I congratulate and admire you.” Clara finished rolling some tobacco in a piece of dried banana leaf. She lit her cigar from a smoulder ing chip.

I returned to Marou village and found Bill trading cheap jewellery and knick knackery for cowrie shells, cat’s eyes and other island oddities.

What about the mysterious Chinese writing and the caves? We sailed a thousand miles away, to the New Hebrides, before discovering any caves.

So the Yasawa mystery is a mystery to me yet.