Tribewanted: Vorovoro

Ni sa bula!

I observe closely as Pupu weaves the coconut palm frond around the timber posts of the dining shelter – a decoration in honour of the return of the Cahill family’s return to Vorovoro after renewing their visas in Tonga. His chubby but artful fingers grasp the fronds and work them into a plaid, wrapping the wood in a green venetian blind. It’s my turn next, so I need to pay attention. There’s nothing Pupu doesn’t know about the plants of the island and the lore of the Mali islands’ culture. An elderly, almost toothless sage in shorts and baseball cap, he can tell stories for hours. It’s said that if anyone gets a fishbone stuck, they just need to look him in the eye and it dislodges, being swallowed harmlessly; and at dinner that evening, the head gardener Liabi proves the point.

Decoration is about the least practical of the coconut plant’s seemingly limitless functions. As well as the fresh juice and the flesh, the squeezed and filtered milk may be boiled to an oil as the base of an insect repellent. Dry scrapings are a nutritious supplement to pig feed. The husks are an excellent composting and mulch material, or perfect for tinder. The hard inner shells make ideal “bilos” from which the kava is drunk – the larger being dubbed “malau bus” (an in joke here “do you want to ride the bus?” being asked of drinkers who might be tempted for an extra large bowl) – or jewellery. The straighter trunks are used in construction, and the stumps of fallen trees are good camp fire fodder. The spines of the larger fronds can be stripped into makeshift oars; taken as a whole the fronds are used thatch, are woven into strong baskets, and of course, used for making things beautiful.

The ladies prepare a flurry of cakes for a triple birthday party. The script says Fijians don’t normally celebrate birthdays, but from what I’ve seen here, every day brings a new excuse to feast and be merry. Wati is our genius cook, able to whip up a fish stew or chicken rice dish with only basic ingredients. Accompanying the baking is an almost constant stream of raucous laughter from the ladies in the kitchen area. There is a programme for the day, but it’s a loose one. Things happens in “Fiji time”: whenever everyone involved is ready, which may be hours after the original plan. They may not exactly wait, but time and tide do seem to make allowances here.

The pig grunts rhythmically as it is walked to the back of the grog mat, dragged backwards by its hind legs. We’re outdoors in Liga Levu – reputedly the friendliest village in Fiji – watching a presentation of payment to the workman who this morning concreted over the grave of local elder Tomasi’s father. The custom here is to bury soon after death; but after several months, when enough money has been saved, to construct a concrete cap over the site. There are of course celebrations on both occasions. Payment in this case is in the form of a nicely fatted young pig, and several bunches of Taro: a vegetable which once the toxins are boiled out, makes a dryish potatoey dish known as Dalo. In keeping with its reputation, Liga does seem to be a place of broad smiles and amiable company, and the concluding grog session goes on well into the night.

Leaving in the morning brings tears to my eyes, not for the first time in my recent travels. Aside from a recent joyous visit to Ghana, I have never experienced such an open hearted and generous welcome as I have in the Fijian islands of Mali. In particular, Vorovoro – “land of broken pieces” – a reference to its rugged and assorted geographical features – has broken whatever remained of my shell and grafted itself firmly onto my heart. And from what I gather, this is a common experience for tribemembers…

So ta tale!