Church & Chief
A day in the life…. While Kent was out diving, I made friends with a village chief! My intention was to attend a Catholic mass in Naucelecele. I walked to the village in scorching heat, my clothes dripping as I arrived at the old Catholic church. The mass started at 11, and I arrived at 10. At this point, I was awfully thirsty (stupid…forgot my water bottle), so I walked to a home nearby and asked for a cup of water. Turns out this was the village chief’s home and he invited me in to chat. Introduced me to his wife and daughter; his 3 year old directing me to take her picture over and over again so she could see the playback. The house consists of one large room with no furniture (Fijians sit on the floor), with mats rolled off to the side for sleeping at night. An adjoining room made up the small cooking area. Most people, besides the elders, speak both Fajian and English; most merchants are Indian, a hold over from the days when they were brought to the island for labor.) So, we talked, and soon heard drums beating, which is to alert villagers that church will be starting. I thanked the chief after downing 4 more cups of water, and went on my way. Church was inspiring. I haven’t dipped my fingers in holy water and made the sign of the cross since I was a child. Haunting memories. There are no pews. Everyone sits on the floor cross legged. The priest and 2 elders walk down the middle isle, dressed in long white cotton with blue sashes. Fiji is a modest country. In the villages, women must not show their thighs; most wear sulus, which is like a sari, or wrap-around skirt at the knee or lower. The smell of incense wafted through the heavy air. Suddenly and with resounding volume, the people belted out in song; it was so jarring and beautiful I was near tears. The men’s voices were deep and thick; the harmonies of the women’s voices striking right to the heart….I was instantly moved and lifted, sitting in the middle of this small space, surrounded by powerful, earth shaking voices; and the children’s voices in a higher register, so sweet and happy. There were no prayer books or song books. All by heart. The priest began to speak. The only words I understood were “hallelujah” and “mortal sin”. People sat fanning themselves, the usual, children getting fussy, babies falling asleep, I tried to follow the mass, although in Fijian, I knew when the Act of Contrition was spoken, what the call and response meant throughout. And during Holy Communion, the priest looked at me and nodded, as if inviting me to receive the host, I did not, remembering there are rules here, ones I haven’t followed for many years. Instead I focused on the statue of Jesus, with raised hand, meaning have no fear (the same mudra in yoga), the red & yellow birds of paradise gracing the altar, and a peaceful looking statue of the Virgin Mary; smiled at the children turning around to look at this stranger, sitting in the suffocating air, thankful to be there, privileged to experience this, again reminded that people are more the same than different, everywhere in the world. On my walk home, I stopped by a clear creek, where the chief was washing and brushing his teeth. I heard children’s voices, laughing and playing. He directed me down a road that led to a swimming hole where children were swinging from ropes and plunging into the freshwater; women were swishing their babies around, laughing. I ventured in, with my skirt (as the women did) for a refreshing dip before the hot walk back home.
A day in the life…. While Kent was out diving, I made friends with a village chief! My intention was to attend a Catholic mass in Naucelecele. I walked to the village in scorching heat, my clothes dripping as I arrived at the old Catholic church. The mass started at 11, and I arrived at 10. At this point, I was awfully thirsty (stupid…forgot my water bottle), so I walked to a home nearby and asked for a cup of water. Turns out this was the village chief’s home and he invited me in to chat. Introduced me to his wife and daughter; his 3 year old directing me to take her picture over and over again so she could see the playback. The house consists of one large room with no furniture (Fijians sit on the floor), with mats rolled off to the side for sleeping at night. An adjoining room made up the small cooking area. Most people, besides the elders, speak both Fajian and English; most merchants are Indian, a hold over from the days when they were brought to the island for labor.) So, we talked, and soon heard drums beating, which is to alert villagers that church will be starting. I thanked the chief after downing 4 more cups of water, and went on my way. Church was inspiring. I haven’t dipped my fingers in holy water and made the sign of the cross since I was a child. Haunting memories. There are no pews. Everyone sits on the floor cross legged. The priest and 2 elders walk down the middle isle, dressed in long white cotton with blue sashes. Fiji is a modest country. In the villages, women must not show their thighs; most wear sulus, which is like a sari, or wrap-around skirt at the knee or lower. The smell of incense wafted through the heavy air. Suddenly and with resounding volume, the people belted out in song; it was so jarring and beautiful I was near tears. The men’s voices were deep and thick; the harmonies of the women’s voices striking right to the heart….I was instantly moved and lifted, sitting in the middle of this small space, surrounded by powerful, earth shaking voices; and the children’s voices in a higher register, so sweet and happy. There were no prayer books or song books. All by heart. The priest began to speak. The only words I understood were “hallelujah” and “mortal sin”. People sat fanning themselves, the usual, children getting fussy, babies falling asleep, I tried to follow the mass, although in Fijian, I knew when the Act of Contrition was spoken, what the call and response meant throughout. And during Holy Communion, the priest looked at me and nodded, as if inviting me to receive the host, I did not, remembering there are rules here, ones I haven’t followed for many years. Instead I focused on the statue of Jesus, with raised hand, meaning have no fear (the same mudra in yoga), the red & yellow birds of paradise gracing the altar, and a peaceful looking statue of the Virgin Mary; smiled at the children turning around to look at this stranger, sitting in the suffocating air, thankful to be there, privileged to experience this, again reminded that people are more the same than different, everywhere in the world. On my walk home, I stopped by a clear creek, where the chief was washing and brushing his teeth. I heard children’s voices, laughing and playing. He directed me down a road that led to a swimming hole where children were swinging from ropes and plunging into the freshwater; women were swishing their babies around, laughing. I ventured in, with my skirt (as the women did) for a refreshing dip before the hot walk back home.
Monica and Kent, Thanks so much for letting me know about your blog. I was definitely 'there' with you as you described all the people and places. AND I was wondering about how you were coping when we heard about the cyclone. Loved our story about the church. We went to one too, but much larger.. the singing. I can hear it now.
ReplyDelete