In the village, I woke up smiling each morning, partially because I'd had blissful sleep in a cozy bed, contrary to my fears, partially for other reasons, but mainly because it was like being a child on my grandparent’s farm in North Carolina again, to be awakened by the long-missed crows of roosters. Hens & roosters roam cage-free like they did at my grandparents' and uncle's then. Like some other Fijian homes, the house was made of brightly painted cinderblocks, including inside walls, (the vivid colors reminded me of some homes in the Spanish Caribbean plus the Mayans) but unlike most, their house was relatively large and decent. I had my own turquoise bedroom with that nice, cozy double bed. The only other cultures I know of that place high value on turquoise are a few Native American and ancient Egyptian ones. (Fascinating links between them in an upcoming post.)
The window in my bedroom was the only one facing the backyard that I believe contained glass. The others were all open windows and doorways without screens. Most Fijians keep open doorways and windows even in front because they believe it bad manners to close or lock doors. An open door says “Welcome in” and other villagers (plus a stray cat, dog, and birds) came freely in and out of the home of my host family. Like my family in my hometown in N.C. , most people in these patriarchal villages are related and “stopping by” plus walking in without knocking was normal. Crime is rare to non-existent in the villages and a passenger on a bus in Nadi told me he’d heard on the news during that week, that Fiji had the lowest crime rate in the world.
Half the Fijians in the country are unemployed and live off the land as they always have. Families grow their food on their own farms and fruit trees, plus catch it through fishing and wild pig hunting. Ever since The Blue Lagoon, the movie made in this country coincidentally, I've had a submerged fantasy of spending some time living on an abandoned island. In Fiji, a country of mostly uninhabited islands, that fantasy was reawakened--just a bit.
Original plans were for me to join others teaching people in some other villages how to build and maintain marine reserves for the reef fish, a staple food there, which is something their ancestors had long done, but with westernization, the Fijians had gotten away from. Though reef fishing is also a main source of livelihood for many Fijians, I discovered there are now hundreds of organizations in Fiji getting Fijians to go back to what their ancestors knew best; preserving the reefs and fish which depend on them, preserves far more than just them. I was glad to learn that my village was one of them and the reefs have been coming back to life, increasing the colorful fish that need them.
I could not bear going boar hunting; the poor things are caught in the forests and stabbed with spears and unlike when my grandmother would chop the necks off our chickens & I’d cry up a storm but still eat them that night for dinner, I could not eat the pork that was served from the lovo because I watched one family member cut the whole pig open the day before and it was just a “little” thing. Although we also went to supermarkets, my family down south ate fresh food quite often through much of the same means as I grew up during summers there. (Just replace the boar hunting with deer & squirrel hunts, which were mainly out of fun for my cousins by the time I’d come along vs. necessity; my uncle also kept pigs & cattle in pens.)
Did I mention Judith & her family’s great cooking? The cooking is done communally and served by the younger adults in the extended family household. Although I kept telling the hosts I didn’t mind eating on the mat in the kitchen with the rest of the family instead of always being served at the dining room table with the two of them (which they’d bought sometime after hosting their first elderly couple who had a hard time getting up and down from the floor), they continued to call me to the table at meal times. These were the times we would exchange stories about the history and culture of our countries and families. The younger family members would then come in and clear the table when we were through.
On my fourth and last night with them, they prepared a lovo for me. This is underground cooking, which I learned later from my mother, was once done on occasion by my family downsouth also. Who knew? While Judith's family cooked the pig her nephews brought home and other food in this hole they dug, wrapped and covered in banana leaves,and covered with dirt, she explained that in some other villages, they use alternative methods, such as putting the food inside bamboo for the underground cooking. All I know is, it was amongst the best of the Fijian food I tasted. Because it takes so much labor and hours to complete, one must stay at the villages I learned about, at least 3 days to experience the lovo; well worth it.
As recently as the 1970s or 80s, the only places visitors to Fiji could stay, was with a host Fijian family in their village. My particular family had just finished hosting others a day before I arrived and had more guests coming the day I left. I believe they told me they host families at least twice a month now, sometimes far more often. This started when an Australian or New Zealander (from one of these two nearest neighboring nations) stayed with them and, seeing how large their place was, asked if they wouldn’t mind joining him in a business venture: he gets a cut for steering guests seeking homestays in their direction through his website, along with several other Fijian families in various parts of the country. You can check out this and other villages’ activities; Fijian foods, and even some of my host family’s recipes, along with sampling Fijian music, plus planning your own Fijian homestay there like I did at www.fijibure.com/namatakula/index.htm (more photos pending)
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