Silano, on Ovalau October 2, 2003
When Forest woke up, he had a mysterious black coating on his tongue. John took us to the Levuka Hospital, which was a new, Western-style building on the edge of town. There were several heavy women sweating in the waiting room, but we were bumped to the front of the line (racism maybe?). Forest saw the doctor, who was as mystified as we were. The doctor gave Forest a shot of steroids and sent us on our way.
Forest didn't feel up to going on the Silano village tour we had planned for today. I ended up going by myself - or rather, with Marilyn (one of the owners of the Homestay) and an Australian couple staying at the Homestay, Franko and Annette. Franko was a high-energy guy - some might say too high energy - originally from Iran. During breakfast, he constantly exclaimed over all the food, saying over and over how delicious and fresh everything was. For example:
"This papaya! So fresh!"
Marilyn, Franko, Annette and I walked down to Ovalau Watersports, where five other tourists were already gathered, waiting for the (typically late) bus into Silano. I recognized most of them from last night's Tuesday "ex-pat" meeting at the Ovalau club.
The "bus" was of the type I had seen everywhere in Suva: an oversize pickup truck, with a tarp arching over the back and wooden benches lining either side. The driver went very fast considering the poorly maintained dirt road, and a huge cloud of dust formed behind us.
As our bus jolted to a stop in front of Silano village, all the woman put on our long skirts. We were met at the entrance to the village by a man clutching a handful of kava root, which we needed for our sevusevu. He led us into a central covered area, where the chief and his entourage sat in the shade. There were no walls, only bamboo posts woven with palm fronds and flowers. The chief's entourage - all muscular young men - were self-consciously bare-chested, dressed in tropical-patterned sulus with leaf garlands tied around their arms.
The man who had met us at the village entrance presented the kava root to the chief in a long ceremony involving lots of clapping and speaking in unison. This seemed a lot more formal than the sevusevu I had witnessed in Lovoni during Epi's tour, like they were hamming it up for our benefit. This time we were also required to drink kava with the chief.
Franko holding a lobster
One of the chief's entourage prepared the kava. First, he dumped several bucketfuls of water into the big kava bowl, then poured some powdered kava from paper sacks into a filter bag. He dunked the bag into the water, then mashed the bag against the bottom of the bowl, wringing it out over and over like a washcloth, till the water was a murky gray colour.
When the kava was the right concentration, the preparer dipped a bilo (half-coconut) into the mixture and handed it to the oldest male in our group. The man drank it with a small grimance and handed it back. The chief was then presented with the bilo - he clapped before drinking, then clapped three times after draining the kava. The bilo went around our circle. When it was my turn, I was afraid it would be too nasty to drink, but it turned out to have a mild medicine taste, like aspirin dissolved in water. My lips went numb almost immediately afterwards.
Once each of the tourists had drank a bilo full of kava, the chief's entourage finished off the bowl.
We were guided around the village, but Silano boasted even fewer attractions than Lovoni and so the tour was quite short. In addition, most residents had left to find employment in Suva, so many of the houses were boarded up and deserted. The highlight was the village church, which had been built out of coral. While we were walking around, we were given flower garlands to wear around our necks.
Franko: "So pretty!"
Along the black-sand beach, the Lovoni villagers had prepared our lunch in a traditional lovo - an underground oven. The lovo was a pit filled with heated stones, covered by a heap of banana leaves and palm fronds. There were freshly-caught fish and lobster, both wrapped in huge banana leaves, baking on the rocks, along with whole taro roots.
(On a related note, the lovo used to be the preferred way to cook unfortunate European visitors before eating them.)
The villagers set a table with the lovo feast, and we all took plates and helped ourselves. The fish was spectacularly cooked, made even better by spooning a lolo and onion mixture over it. I went back for three helpings.
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While we ate, the villagers performed a meke (ceremonial dance). Three young men, dressed in grass skirts and daubed with black paint, came out and did several war dances armed with sharp pieces of bamboo.
I was the first to be dragged, protesting, to join the dance. It was simple: step forward in time with the beat, rotate to either the left or the right, then step backwards with the beat. When almost everyone on the tour was dancing with a villager, the dance suddenly became a congo-line that snaked around the village square.
After dancing, we all sat around with the chief's entourage finishing off another huge bowl of kava while the rest of the villagers continued to strum on their guitars and sing. Meanwhile, Franko dashed off into the jungle and tried to climb a coconut tree; he actually got halfway up before sliding down. One of the village boys took pity on him and nimbly climbed up himself, then tossed down coconuts. Then he husked several and poked a hole in one for Franko to drink. Franko came back with an armful of coconuts, and tried to sell them to the villagers. The Fijians thought he was hilarious.
On our way out, a Fijian boy proposed to me! I politely declined.
Later that night, at the Homestay, Forest and I sat out on the deck drinking with Franko and Annette. Franko had brought home one of the husked coconuts from Silano, and was using its juice to mix with ample quantaties of duty-free rum.
Annette: "Honey, don't pour the coconut juice over the tablecloth. Honey. Honey I said don't -"
Franko: "This coconut! So fresh!"
When Forest and I asked Marilyn and John where we should go next, they recommended we visit a resort island called Toberua. When we told them we didn't want to do the resort holiday, Marilyn pulled out a glossy brochure filled with loving descriptions of the meals (included in the price), and then showed us a clip from a video tape of "reef golf" the two of them had played during low tide on Toberua. We were sold, and made reservations immediately.
Next: The resort on Toberua island.