Twenty two years ago this week: our brother Rusi.

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With indulgent time on our hands here in KL it occurred to me: where were we on this day during previous trips? Then checking some old diary folders I came across this… The photos are dismal (images scanned from photos taken on a 1970s child's Kodak).

Wednesday 25th April 1990; Taveuni, Fiji.

An early rise and caught the 9 a.m. bus to Prince Charles beach with David and Oscar. The small white-sand beach slopes down to a chunk of reef that is exposed at low-tide. Fabulous coral and a myriad of different fish made for great snorkelling interrupted only by sunbathing breaks when we tucked into David’s rum. Again there are no buses back and, with no taxis in evidence either, we decided to try hitching rather than face a nine mile walk. Luckily a truck stopped and we piled in the back. The leggy woman driving was part of a film crew making the sequel to “The Blue Lagoon”. Failed in our feebly-subtle attempts at getting invited to any shooting parties, but were thankful of the lift.

Rusi appeared again (having escaped incarceration this time) and was insistent that we head back with him tomorrow to his village. Decision made, we bought a pile of beers. Our Indian landlady at Koor's ("a home away from home" - not) wasn’t feeling congenial and refused to let Rusi hang around the hostel (no indigenous Fijians on site thankyou), so we headed off to the shore with David to drink them. As darkness fell we started back only to meet up with a bunch of lads from Rusi’s village who were over on Taveuni for a rugby match and were now headed to a dance.

The dance was held in an old colonial-style hall. As we approached we could hear the music playing and make out a crowd of people milling around outside but, bizarrely, no one bar the band was actually inside the building. Instead, everyone was congregated in groups around the windows peering in. Feeling brave we ventured into the goldfish bowl first. Slowly people began to drift in after us, filling the seats stationed in a solitary ring with their backs against the walls and facing the empty abyss of the dance floor. Apparently it is the Fijian habit that the women ask the men to dance, although this didn’t stop Ali being continually hauled up by a succession of men. David, however, was busy wishing this wasn’t the custom as one particularly hefty woman - who obviously liked to dance and who obviously liked him even more - wouldn’t take no for an answer and dragged him up, clutching him to her heaving breast like the little girl who accidentally smothers her puppy with love. Meanwhile, Rusi and I sought the safety of the yaqona bowl and chatted to a guy who had, in his youth, studied at Leeds. Outside was still busy and more boisterous than within: alcohol being prohibited in the hall.

On exiting hours later we were confronted by a group of paralytic rugby players who were deep into a vat of homebrew. Par for the course - so we were to discover - a fight broke out, with one local lad getting a kick-in from his fellow team mates. Rusi shook his head sagely and explained. “That man played very badly today and the team lost”. It seems that whilst Fijians wouldn’t dream of being aggressive towards foreigners the same doesn’t hold towards each other, especially once booze or sport enters the equation.


Thursday 26th April 1990. Buca village, Venua Levu, Fiji.

As the rain finally stops so does the bus, just short of the village which is visible across a sturdy modern steel bridge spanning the broad, sluggish, orange-brown river; it is as beautiful as Rusi promised. Much of the village is built on reclaimed land and all buildings are raised on stilts. The Mataitoga family’s new house is on the near-side of the village, right on the river bank. It is larger than most but, like all its neighbours, single-storey and made entirely from unpainted wood with a corrugated iron roof. There is a veranda overhanging the river and from here you can gaze upstream to the mist-shrouded hills or downstream to its mouth as it empties muddily into the sea. Ahead, across the river, are dense trees. The windows are unglazed, protected by crude vertically hanging shutters now propped open with sticks. Inside there is a large barren reception room, two bedrooms with mosquito-netted mattresses on the floor, and the village’s first toilet that flushes - straight into the river.

Rusi’s father is away selling kava so Rusi’s younger brother Mosese performs the sevusevu ceremony in his place. In the absence of the head of the family this would normally fall to the oldest brother (Rusi), but as he brought us to the village he is barred from doing so. We sit on the naked boards of the reception room as Mosese officially welcomes us, saying how happy he is to be able to accommodate us, to look after us and that his house is our house. It feels very strange to arrive with a friend and yet need to pass these formalities. Throughout his speech Mosese cradles the bundle of kava that we had presented to him. If the kava had remained unhandled then that in it-self would have stated rejection and that we were unwelcome. I suspect it would also have been more than his life is worth at the hands of Rusi.

We meet the other family members: Rusi’s sister Viri, a onetime trainee nurse (prior to her two young twins) who is soon quizzing Ali about British medicine; his other brothers; a cheeky young nephew Bruce; and his mother who seems completely unfazed by us descending upon them unannounced. His mother is an exception to the Fijian rule of brash, plump, middle-aged women and is gracefully slender, quiet and thoughtful, but still engaging as she goes about preparing dinner. This was to be eaten in the old house situated behind the new building, a two roomed mere shack of a place. Here the kitchen is obviously the room for all occasions and everyone is soon sitting around a tablecloth on the floor as dishes begin to appear: fried whitebait in coconut juice; a boiled green leafy vegetable – taro; yellow fibrous-looking cassavas; and the white, dense, root of the taro plant – dalo. Prayers are said by Rusi. Again they are a lengthy affair giving thanks to god for the food provided, for placing us in their home, and for giving us all good health. Then the cross-legged assembly dig-in with fingers.

Tonight there is a grog party on the other side of the village. Descending from the hubbub of the kitchen into the still moonlit night the village exists only as silver and grey shadows. We follow the narrow paths that criss-cross the network of drainage ditches - flushed clean with each high tide. Most doors are still open to the balmy night and our path is periodically illuminated with shafts of lantern light and the sounds of family life from within. There are no walls or fences in the village. Rusi informs us that there should be no barriers between members of the village and that villagers should be able to wander freely into each other’s homes. Cooperation is central to village life: fortune and hardship alike are shared, with no one, not even the chief, having particularly more or less than their neighbour; there are few luxuries, but no one ever goes hungry. This familiarity and uniformity cements the village as one large extended family, giving each person a sense of belonging and identity. Indeed, tonight’s party is an example of this community…

There are about thirty people outside the house, mainly men but with a few women and children intermingled as well. A large awning slants down from roof level and underneath is an assemblage of woven mats and in the centre of the sitting crowd a large grog bowl in which floats three coconut shells. To the side several men are playing guitars and singing Fijian songs, whilst behind them are two topless guys, one stabilising a vertical section of hollowed tree stump as the other rhythmically pounds half a car axel into its excavated end, sending up puffs of kava powder. The party is to raise funds for two men who are moving to work in Fiji’s capital Suva, back on Vitu Levu. It also serves as a going-away bash. A man walks among the gathering with a collection plate and someone begins by giving 10 cents to buy a friend a drink of grog. This is announced, the recipient receives his shell and either drinks alone or says “same boat” meaning that he’d like to buy one back for his friend and he then donates a further 10 cents himself and they drink together. And so it continues, essentially everyone buying each other a drink with all the money gathered going to the cause. Money is made as the donations far outweigh the value of the kava if it had been sold at market. The atmosphere is totally chilled. Ali and I chat to everyone in turn, buy large amounts of grog and let the numbing fluid do its worst. The humid night intensifies and breaks into a thunder storm but no one is worried; the music plays on and there’s much clumsy dancing. Tonight I’m the popular one being handed from one girl to the next. Finally the fund raising stops and a speech is made by an old man holding un-pounded kava. In this he thanks everyone for attending and for their generosity; he says that we are now all part of the two lads’ lives and that whenever possible they will, in turn, aid us. He has particular thanks for Ali and me, for allowing the village to look after us and to share their lives with us. The kava he holds is now pounded and prepared and we all drink together in a further bonding of friendships.

Friday April 27th 1990.

The dawn chorus begins and we emerge – slowly, this grog definitely slows you down - to see the mist hovering over the river. It is already hot and we dive straight off the veranda for a swim. Decide that we both need a proper wash and take a makeshift shower under one of the village standpipes. Obviously being in a village Ali has to do this practically fully clothed and she’s not happy about the lack of attention her nether regions are receiving.

Quick breakfast of flour and water pancakes with coconut oil and then we set off on a trek into the bush armed only with a spade, several tins of tuna and a bag of salt?! Trek it was as we traipsed through long grass, reeds, prickly undergrowth, muddy semi-paths, boggy trails, swamp, rivers and dense jungle, predictably accompanied by rain. Several hours later, dirty and wet and thoroughly acquainted with leeches, we arrived at our destination – a grassy clearing at the river’s edge, overlooked in the distance by a 30 metre waterfall. Rusi went off in search of further food whilst we cleaned up in the river and gathered large stones for the ‘lovo’ (ground oven).

We share the clearing with a young couple and their children; the man cutting coconuts, the husks of which will be sold as copra, whilst the woman cooks lunch and the children play. Once over their shyness the children soon turn their attention to Ali and are chasing her along the bank in a game of tag, splashing her and finding great amusement in trying to pull her shorts down.

Rusi returns with coconuts, cassavas, taro and banana leaves, assorted bulbs, and then sets about making the lovo as, thankfully, the sun makes an appearance. First a pit is dug and a fire started in its base. The fire is covered with coconut husks, the stones laid on these and then more husks placed on top. Once the husks burn down the hot stones fall to the bottom and provide the heat for the cooking.

Meanwhile the family are already tucking into their lunch and we are invited to join them. We thank them and try to refuse saying we are about to cook our own lunch, but they’ll not hear of it so we accept small portions. Plantains boiled with taro leaves then mixed with mackerel and eaten out of coconut shells make a bloody good starter.

They depart and Rusi gets on with preparing the Palasami. Taro leaves are placed onto large cut squares of banana leaf that double as cooking receptacle and future plate. The taro leaves are then sprinkled with tuna, grated coconut, onion, garlic and salt, the banana leaf is folded into a small parcel into which is added coconut milk before sealing. A decrease in the smoke billowing from the pit indicates that the oven is now ready and the topmost husks are removed, the food placed onto the rocks, covered with whole banana leaves and then buried. An hour later and we dig them out again, suddenly ravenous as the aromatic steam begins to escape.

Palasami is regarded as a delicacy and we were not disappointed. When we finish eating and lavishing praise on his culinary skills Rusi admits that this is his first attempt at Palasami and indeed a ground oven. Totally replete we lay down to enjoy the sounds of the bush and the last rays of the sun, taking it in turns to pair-up for a walkman earphone each. It is here that we become aware for the first time that everyone the world over loves Bob Marley. Then as dusk falls so the giant striped mosquitoes emerge to gorge on the fleshly feast that is us and we head back as hurriedly as our torchlight will allow towards the village. (Little did we know we had just contracted Dengue fever).

On arriving we meet Rusi’s father who has returned from his selling trip. He seems positively delighted to meet us and, despite speaking no English, welcomes us warmly with hearty handshakes and constant smiles. At dinner I say an epic grace which earned me a pat on the back from dad (even though he understood not a word of what I was saying) and (obviously in his good books) he was soon whisking us off for some grog. Not wanting to outstay our welcome we had intended to leave tomorrow, but when this was related to his father, and following Rusi’s gushing translation and his father’s eager nods, we were (easily) persuaded to reconsider until Monday at least.

At 1 a.m. Ali retired, but we three and several others (do people simply roam the village looking for an available bowl?) continued to sit out on the veranda as Rusi’s father ups the drinking rate with cries of “talo”, “talo”, “talo”… I gingerly asked Rusi why is it that he and his father seem to speak very little to each other? This I was informed is intimate Fijian etiquette: people who respect each other do not sit around chatting about trivial matters and indeed hardly acknowledge each other in social situations, any interactions being reserved for the asking of favours or maters of importance. At some stage I staggered, somewhat embarrassed at my lack of coordination, to the flushing toilet. I need not have worried as on my return Rusi’s father made the same trip… on his hands and knees. There is no shame in becoming intoxicated by yaqona, although the satanic alcohol is viewed very differently… by the elders at least.

Sometime before dawn I hear a squeal from the direction of the bedroom where Ali was asleep and mobilise myself as fast as I am able. She’s sitting up, faintly visible within the mossie net, the sleeping bag gathered around her, staring at the rafters that run above the divisional reed walls of each room. “Rats, huge… no, really… fucking huge rats, running… massive white….” And at that second a rat, white as snow, and a good foot long without the tail, trotted along as if to confirm.

Having established that our furry friends were happy staying on their aerial runway I returned to the group as Ali tucked the mosquito net even more firmly under the mattress.

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