Chapter 6 - Fiji - uplifted spiritually and physically

It’s Sunday. And why is that worth noting? Well, in Fiji there’s a Sunday ban. That means everything is closed. Nothing is running. No shopping, no swimming, no sports. No taxis, no buses and no boats. That’s right. No boats. There’s nothing to do except eat, sleep and go to church. I feel so stupid – I knew about the Sunday ban but it didn’t twig that it would affect our getting to Beachcomber. Of course I don’t think of us staying another night in Lautoka as being ‘stuck in this god-forsaken dump’ like Niki does, but it does require a shift in plans.

There was nothing the others could suggest to counteract my suggestion that we go to a church service. After all, it’s part of the culture, and there’s nothing else on offer. We chose a small church with a board outside that indicated there was a service at 10am. It was really just a wooden room with a few benches and several large bouquets of flowers. The colour of the walls was that garish green that seems to be a national favourite. Homes, shops, cafes and churches all use use it in generous amounts, along with yellow and sometimes a very bright pink. I wonder, are these colours of choice, or are they the only ones available, reject colours from first world countries that donate paint?

The small place was crammed to the rafters with locals dressed up in shiny clothes. We got there at 5 mintues to 10am and halfway through the service. Nothing in Fiji actually starts when it advertises it will. We tried to creep in unnoticed and sat in the back but were spotted, were welcomed warmly from the front and saw heads regularly craning back to look at us. We soon noticed a few English words creeping into the service, for our benefit no doubt.

It was a long service, and the others nodded off but I didn’t mind. The music was glorious. A choir sang a cappella in the most intricate and wonderful harmonies – I counted five different lines! The congregation added its own harmonies as well so we were surrounded by this astounding audio beauty. Music must be such an integral part of life here. So must be man-made fibres I think. Fijian females seem to love wearing anything that glitters and shines on Sunday. Everyday sulus are left at home and prized ‘Palangi’ clothes come out for the weekly airing. Women wear dresses that cover their knees and arms in shiny polyester weighed down with bows and glitter, and little girls are frilled and laced to death, right down to their socks and shiny strapped shoes. Men are less showy in starched white shirts and dark sulus. The parson was a Fijian who had married an Australian woman who seemed to me to be more concerned about the state of her white shoes than about her husband’s sermon. I heard more "Hallelujah"s in 2 hours than I have heard in 20 years. There was real joy here, not like the sad church services at home.

When it was finally over (after noon!), we got up to leave, but were surrounded with smiles and handshakes and ‘welcome to the palangis’. A large man and his equally large wife asked us to join in their Sunday feast and I quickly said ‘yes!’ before the others could make up an excuse. A real, local, not-put-on-by-a-tourist-resort Fijian feast! I ignored Niki and Sophie’s hesitant faces as we followed about a dozen family members to their home (painted a sort of orange colour completely destroying my earlier observations) where we sat on woven mats on the floor and talked in halting English. I tried out my Fijian and got a great response, smiles and shouts of ‘mbula!’ and handshakes. Very vigourous handshakes. We were asked endless questions about our homes and families. Nike and Sophie answered with curt politeness, but I asked everyone around me about Fijian music and art and their school system and politics and history. I had a wonderful time!

Eventually a series of dishes was laid out in front of us. Breadfruit, taro root, octopus, papaya, pineapple, mango, sweet potato, cassava, an entire watermelon cut into curves. Roast chicken, roast pig, cucumbers, tomatoes, yams, a wonderful white fish simply roasted in a mesh of leaves, chow mein, dalo, a starchy white round vegetable I couldn’t identify, a stew of eggplant, tomato, coconut and dalo leaves, another dish of dalo leaves alone. It kept coming and coming for hours. The best dish was something called “kokoda”, raw fish in coconut and lemon juice with tomatoes. We ate until we couldn’t eat and then had to eat a little more until everyone lay back groaning. There were cheese puffs strung along coconut strands, with cigarettes stuck on the end, and all pierced into coconuts as decorations. One by one the cigarettes were removed and smoked, and the now soft cheezies were eaten by the children, in the way of after dinner mints. Soon snoring could be heard amid the low hum of conversation.

As the light began to decline we rose and thanked everyone before leaving. We ourselves were thanked so vehemently it was as if we’d hosted them! What a friendly, open people. I think Niki and Sophie were a little taken aback by the whole experience and when we got back to the hotel they lay on their beds, groaning with full bellies and soon fell asleep, but as night descended I went outside and sat on a rickety chair that was missing its back and watched the palm trees become black silhouettes against the darkening indigo sky. The stars showed themselves one by one, revealed as blue became black, not upstaged by any moon, stars allowed to perform their glittering dance across the heavens. I felt so happy, and so connected to that sky and those stars and this place.