I eventually had to part with the Singapore airport and all of its luxuries to fly to Brisbane, where Tanya awaited me with a sign that surely confused the rest of the crowd. In bold letters it commanded: “GET IN MY BELLY,” an inside joke from Africa.

I teased Australia with my arrival, for we were on a plane to Nadi (pronounced “Nandi”) 3 hours later, the 3rd biggest city in Fiji. No matter what the official time zone, the people here set their own schedules, a cultural entitlement that Tanya and I joked about as we waited for our driver at the airport. “Fiji Time” is a lighthearted, though sometimes extremely frustrating, excuse for a national lack of organization. In America, our lives abide the clock; In Fiji, it’s the other way around.

After an introductory meal at McDonald’s (suggested by the driver), we spent the night at the Rustic Pathways’ base house being remodeled in Momi Bay. The following morning we went to pick up food, sulus (Fijian sarongs), and plenty of kava to bring with us to Nasivikoso.

Nasivikoso is a deep-rooted Fijian village isolated in the highlands, but now intimately known to thousands of American students from Rustic’s community service programs there. Since there’s no electricity, and messages relayed from Nadi are hit or miss, we weren’t sure if the village expected me, but showed up nonetheless mid-day.

Tanya said “hi” to her friends from the summer, and then “see ya in 3 days” to me, knowing I was in the good hands of Rustic’s staff: Josese, Jone (Jonny), Junior, Jim and Jason. They led me to the house of my “Nene” (mother), a cheerful old lady with a big heart, crazy fro, and awesome beard. When friends from LA found out I’d be visiting the village, they gave me messages to pass on to their Nenes and Momos, but since they all only know them as “mother” and “father,” it was nearly impossible to communicate any individual greetings.

As in other traditional Fijian villages, the elders oversee all affairs, from ordering lashes to welcoming visitors. I luckily only interacted with them for the latter – the “sevu sevu.” With my new sulu struggling to stay around my waist, I shook hands with all of the elders and the village chief. For all 30 or so handshakes, I repeated, “Bula! My name is Charlie and I’m from America,” and then by the last few I could correctly add “sakutha?” (“how are you?”).

I was officially welcomed with a round of kava and much laughter, despite the competing sounds of sobbing from an elder’s funeral just yards away. It was a bizarre situation, and one that offered immediate insight into the culture. Some people were holding handkerchiefs to their eyes while others were holding bowls of kava to their mouths. Some were mourning directly next to others celebrating. The two rituals – one for the man’s death and one for my arrival, are significant aspects of village protocol that just happened to be occurring simultaneously. Everyone honored both services, and the emotions that they evoked.

So what’s this kava thing all about? When I asked Tanya what it is, she firmly replied, “dirty water.” When I asked Jason what it is, he told me it’s their version of beer – a social drink to pass the time. Technically, it’s water mixed with the root of the kava tree. They pull the roots from the soil, grind them up into powder, carefully transfer every last speck into a cloth, and soak it in river water like a giant tea bag, occasionally squishing it through their fingers for further flavor extraction. They really do cherish it, and, in a village with no electricity and therefore limited means of entertainment, I could understand why. During kava time, they smoke, play the guitar, tell stories, and some say the drink gives a buzz, though it only ever gave me a numb tongue and sweet dreams.

The kava routine is as follows: A scoop is taken from the large wooden bowl and presented in a coconut shell to someone in the circle, who is supposed to clap once and say “bula!” (the classic greeting) to everyone else, and then down it while they clap 3 times and watch. A triumphant “matha!” (dry/empty) is occasionally exclaimed afterwards, followed by more clapping. At the “sevu sevu,” a hefty, cartoony elder nicknamed “Break the Soil” warned me that if I didn’t say “bula!” and make eye contact with him every time, I’d have to drink again. After at least 10 “high tide” (as opposed to “low tide”) cups, I couldn’t handle making such a costly mistake. Kava is an acquired taste I wasn’t keen to acquire.

When it’s light outside, the village is awake. When it’s dark, lanterns come on for a final few rounds of kava. The nearby river is used to bathe, wash clothes, play, and to wake up, as I discovered when Jim practically threw me in the first morning. Women are inferior in the tribal system. They eat last, they can’t be elders or take part in some ceremonies, and they cook, wash, and look after the kids while the men go to the fields. But no one questions the gender roles, and all contributors are treated with respect. They’re truly one big family.

As a member of the family, I wanted to do my part, so I walked with Josese to the farm and helped pick corn. I asked to go hunting with spears, but the hardcore hunters had already left way before I woke up. The village motto would have to be something like: “Work hard, play harder.” After lugging the sacks of corn back to Nene, I joined the volleyball party, creating the undefeated “vavalagi” (white person) team. I was also led on a hike to a great waterfall, though my Fijian guides forgot that my feet aren’t like shoes the way theirs are.

Fiji Time conquered real time once again, and I was delayed at the village for 9 more hours than expected. If I had left when I was supposed to, however, I would’ve missed an unbelievable dance party (where they covered me in baby powder) and a flossing lesson. When I brought out a string of floss after dinner, puzzled stares reminded me that it was a foreign habit to them. I handed each a piece, and watched in amusement as they skeptically brought it to their mouths. My Fijian family finished flossing much quicker than I did, for the gaps of missing teeth made it an easier task.

I made it back to Momi Bay before midnight, having stopped along the way to replace a tire and drop off a cow head. Tanya informed me that bright and early the next day we’d be leaving for a 5-day tour of the postcard Fiji islands.

This entry was posted on Sunday, January 15th, 2006 at 3:01 pm in XIV. Fiji. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.