Tribewanted: Vorovoro

Coming in live from the hammocks on this Pacific Sunday. Looking out over the ocean and rocking out to my favourite album: The Prodigy Experience. Back to ’92, it’s a one man beach rave. But if there was a tune to soundtrack this blog it would be ‘Cc-ch-changes’ by David Bowie.

I’ve been here for several weeks now and everyone used to call me Jim or Timoci (sometimes cocky bast@rd). But not any more, oh no no no, it’s chief this and chief that. The Fijian boys sometimes revert to Jim and then apologise profusely. One might think that skulls are being crushed with coconuts for insubordination. It’s not true. Tying them to the boat and dragging them out over the coral is far more effective. I’ve noticed the boys never walk behind me. For example, if I’m eating at the alfresco dining area with my back to the path, they’ll divert and walk along the beach instead. It’s bamboo under the finger nails if they forget. To be honest, being called chief and getting treated like this feels weird ‘n’ surreal. Back in London, if someone calls you a chief it has a completely different meaning (rhymes with anchor) and is often followed by a scrap. London sucks. Fiji’s ace.

One of my new duties is to greet the newbies and take them on a tour of their new home… waterfall shower, tree house, bures… it’s a fairytale come true (minus the biting shitty mozzies). I counted 67 bites on my arms the last week, that’s not including the milkyway-style bite fest on my back. Due to this, intel reported the location of the enemy bases and for two days we blitzed them good ‘n proper. No mercy.

Thanks to our evangelical brothers who introduced hardcore religion to this region, the locals now dress very conservatively – the complete opposite to their traditional birthday suits. And because of this the tour involves me asking the ladies not to cause offence by walking around in bikinis. This pains me most deeply. I’ve spent half my life trying to convince ladies to undress (unsuccessfully) and now I’m telling them to cover up. This is the hardest part of my new role.

The best thing about my new chiefyness are the digs. The chief’s bure has been resurrected from damp hell and would make the previous chief’s eyes turn green with envy. Firstly, it was fumigated to evict the hordes of insect squatters using burning coconut husks. Secondly, the windows had shutters and mozzie nets added. S-w-e-e-e-e-e-e-t. A blue floral patterned cloth has been used to decorate the inside walls, table and shelves – who needs Changing Rooms (UK TV show) when you got Fijian Interior design? The four-poster bed is also decorated with the same material and it’s looking swish. The room was topped off with a woven mat to be laid over the wooden floor. Booyakka booyakka… incredible! It is now fit for Tui Mali to chillax in and chat chief business. He popped over the other day, as he does, and I showed him the new revamp. He was a bit cream crackered (knackered) so he had a kip on the floor. He could have had the bed. He chose the floor.

The thing that has changed the most for me are the ‘grog sessions’. Back in my ol’ days I was free to roam around the mat choosing who to sit next too. Now I’m at the top in front of the tanoa looking back at the tribe. It can be a bit lonely at the top and I’m treated differently, almost separately. I’ve been given my own bilo to drink from and I have my own mat. The power hasn’t gone to my head or inflated the ego, I still see myself as one of the tribe. A chief for the people. That’s why when the vale (6-bed dorm) became a sausage factory and two fellas left I guided the two hot female newbies into the new vacancy. Mix things up a little bit. Balance the energy. Keep the tribe happy.

Breathe in love. Breathe out peace.