The Village People

Panting and perspiring, I entered the hamlet of Navunimono (try saying that 3 times fast!) where I was immediately ushered into a large hut, and after hasty introductions to my friend Kelera’s family, her father showed me into the main room. In the dim light, six or seven silhouetted figures were sitting cross-legged on the floor.

I was introduced to the village Chief and the other men, most of whom had Biblical names. The only problem was that by the end of the night, as more and more of the men from the village joined us, there were several Johns, Josephs, Joshuas, Isaiahs, Isaacs, and a couple of Matthews thrown in for maximum confusion.

Everyone was gathered around a large shallow bowl with four legs which contained a murky yellowish brown liquid. It became immediately apparent that I had unwittingly interrupted happy hour, except that the beverage being consumed was kava, which looks like something you wouldn't wanna step in and tastes worse.

Kava, (or "grog" as it is often referred to for reasons that will soon become apparent) is a mild sedative made from the powdered root of the yaqona plant mixed with water. I naively thought we were just a bunch of guys hanging out on a Saturday night, so I was surprised at how many rules, regulations and rituals had to be strictly observed and adhered to. It was more complicated than quantum physics.

The drill consists of one of the younger men (in this case a guy named Sela who had a permanent grin on his face and kept repeating my name at five minute intervals) pouring the liquid from the bowl into half a coconut shell which is passed in a specific order to one of the men in the circle who then gulps it down. Or in my case, holds his breath and tries to suppress his gag reflex so as not to spoil the fun by puking. It’s so hard to clean vomit out of those floor mats woven from palm leaves.

Seriously, there is nothing to recommend drinking kava, unless your idea of fun is sitting cross-legged on a hard floor for eight hours straight with no food, ingesting a foul tasting liquid that makes your tongue and fingertips go numb while trying to remember the names of all the apostles gathered around you, much less your own name. These guys could make Gandhi beg for mercy if there were a “Sitting in Lotus Position” contest. Two weeks later I still have scabs on the outsides of my feet because every time I tried to straighten my legs for some relief I received a stern reprimand from the guy sitting next to me.

My other gaffes included forgetting the Chief’s name, touching the Chief on the arm, turning my back to the Chief, forgetting the name of the village, not stooping and saying the Fijian word for “excuse me” when getting up to go to the bathroom, forgetting to say the word "Bula!"every time it was my turn to choke down a bowl of kava, and forgetting to clap three times after each drink...and reaching for the coconut shell out of turn.

Around midnight, when I could hardly stay awake and we were just about out of goofy juice, I made a desperate attempt to make up for my faux pas by pulling out the 2 lb. bag of kava I had brought with me. It was like Christmas morning. After 7 hours of strictly enforced good times and manly bonding, the musical instruments came out, and the REALLY good times began. I felt like I was being help captive in a Woody Allen movie with Fijian subtitles.

I must say, given the amount of grog these guys consumed (I threw in the towel after about 10 bowls) they could still carry a tune, sing harmony and play some mean ukelele. Finally, my host made an announcement in Fijian that I’m pretty sure amounted to “You guys don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here, ‘cause if the gringo doesn’t die from amoebic dysentery from the kava, we’ll have to use the Jaws of Life to get his legs unfolded. Besides, you guys do this every night anyway.” I finally went to bed about 2:30 a.m. despite my protests that the grandmother should not have to sleep curled up in the fetal position on the couch.

The rooster alarm started going off about 5:30 a.m., and after helping my host feed the pigs and then bathing in the river with the other guys, since it was Sunday, I donned my spiffy new sulu and bula (picture Pee Wee Herman in a black skirt and Hawaiian shirt) and headed down the path to the Methodist church.

The drums announcing the beginning of the service started pounding at 10 a.m., but folks drifted in ‘til about 10:30, by which point the inside of the church was hot enough to cook a chicken, and the sweat was dripping off the end of my nose.

The congregation was segregated….men on the left, women on the right, and children in the front. They should have just put the kids across the aisle from me so they wouldn’t have to rotate their heads 180 degrees like a bunch of owls to stare at me. Thankfully, I’ve had plenty of practice being gawked at, so I just smiled pleasantly as the sweat ran down the back of my shirt and into my sulu.

Each time I wiped my eyes I hoped I was giving the impression that I was moved to tears, but in fact I was barely clinging to consciousness by my fingernails. After two and a half hours, and what seemed like an in-depth survey of the entire Old Testament, things finally ground to a halt. And I thought the Southern Baptists could drag out a church service.

By the way, always bring underwear when visiting a Fijian village. I didn't, and while sitting cross-legged on the floor across from him at lunch, it occurred to me that flashing the Chief was probably somewhere near the top of the list of “Dont’s”. After lunch we all fell into a coma on the floor, the Chief snoring in my ear, and when I awoke, still wearing my 137% polyester sulu, soaked to the skin with sweat, it was time to go to church again.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph!! Why couldn’t the early missionaries have left these fine folks to pursue their own interests like canoe building, spear fishing, tribal warfare, kava drinking and cannibalism. Not only do these activities include a lot more exercise and spending time in the great outdoors, but eating human flesh is high in protein as well.

That said, a 20 x 40 foot cinder block building with an interior temperature approaching that of the planet Mercury creates the perfect combination of acoustics and delirium for a 60 voice Fijian congregation singing hymns in four part harmony to make a believer out of you.

After church, more food and a cup of scalding hot tea to take the edge off the heat and humidity, followed by…wait for it...another 8 hour session of kava consumption. If sleep deprivation, dehydration, a wicked kava hangover and the onset of heat stroke doesn’t make you believe in hell, nothing will.

The next morning, as I headed up the hill with the school children from the village to catch the bus, everyone came out of their huts to shake my hand, calling me by name and asking when I'd be back. As they waved goodbye and called out "MO-day", the Fijian word for goodbye, I don't think I've ever felt such a sense of inadequacy to express my gratitude for their generosity, hospitality and acceptance of me as an outsider.

So I used half of my Fijian vocabulary to say "Vinaka vakalevu!" Thank you very much!

Epilogue: I didn't get even a hiccup from the food and water I consumed while in Navunimono. I did however get a nasty case of food poisoning from an expensive Japanese restaurant where I ate a week later.