Child's memorial Somosomo-clothes on line wash day I am out of synch on dates and times...but, another day in the life... It is Tuesday here; we are excited about our new president, but in America, it is Monday, so we have to wait another day. There is a line on the island, at the 180 degree meridian, where you can have one foot in Monday, and one foot in Tuesday! After Kent’s dive this morning, we ventured into town by bus to replenish our groceries. We walked around the village of Somosomo; some of the sights: again, peaceful happy people living a simple life; it may look poor from our frame of reference, but underneath, it is so rich. Colorful clothes hanging on lines to dry in the humid heat, perpetual clattering of birds, laughter of children, men out with machetes gathering food in big sacks, women and children splashing in the river that runs through town (this year, the gov’t will be building a hydro power plant using the velocity of the river), bread fruit drying on corrugated metal racks, horses lazily grazing. At one house, we saw a mound of dirt, surrounded by stones and decorated with flags of colorful cloth. A man approached and introduced himself; Jone, a smiling rotund Fajiian, manager of the school in Somosomo, told us this was a memorial, the place where his 12 year old son was buried one year ago. The boy was playing at school, and was hit in head with a rock; a blood clot formed that could not be operated on (there was no power in the village); he died shortly afterwards. Jone invited us to his front yard to meet his wife, 2 sons and daughter. With big smiles, he said repeatedly, they so missed their son, and showed us a picture of him. In his deep brown eyes, you could see his sorrow. But his family was, at the same time, so filled with joy. Losena talked about the village, her children. They knew about our new president; they quizzed us about Alaska. They were so friendly and engaging. Before we left, they gifted us with a bagful of bananas & invited us to dinner next Tuesday for a meal cooked under stones in the ground (chicken & taro). Wonderful. As we waited in a shaded spot for the bus back to Makaira (on slo-mo time; it is best NOT to wear a watch), we met Simon, a man from Suva, Fiji, who was in the army, and had been to Afghanistan twice. He was looking forward to getting back to his quiet, peaceful island at the end of his duty. Actually, there are frequent coups here, with different leadership arising; it is mostly between the army and the government, arguing back & forth. Simon said it was mostly petty and ridiculous, and had nothing to do with the Fijiian people most of the time. Ah politics. Why don’t we ever learn???? The bus was packed, with Fajiians and Indians, 3 to a seat, and people standing. It was like playing leap frog; we’d stop and let someone off at the back of the bus, but 10 of us had to empty out to let him out; over and over we’re scrambling back and forth until the bus could breathe again and everyone could sit, though quite intimately! The bus has no windows, so we are all saved by ocean breezes. As we raced alongside the sea, a man on a horse was riding furiously on the beach, a woven mat for his saddle, trying to beat the bus…or wear out his horse. It was a beautiful sight, indeed. We have never been anywhere in the world where people lived so simply and were so filled with authentic happiness and respectful modesty. No TV’s or satellite dishes (except at resort up the coast). No people begging on the street like in Asia; far less population density and plenty of food; many living off the land and sea.

Where are the vegies??

Here is something that has really surprised me. I went to the market and realized there are hardly any vegetables here. Most are importetd (that is, when the boat shows up…very unreliable). I bought tomatoes and carrots; but no lettuce, green peppers, all the regulars. A great deal of fruit, however. Bananas, avacados, mangos, bread fruit, papayas, etc. I’m craving veggies! Roberta says it is because the climate is too hot, and the soil is not good for vegetables…gets too warm. Although you can do it, with extra care & attention. But the Fajiian diet consists of fruit, root vegetables (taro, which explains why their teeth are so white; supposedly contains natural fluoride, we are told) and meat (pork-wild pigs, chicken, and my favorite, fish). So we are eating a lot of rice and fish. I go wild at fresh vegetable markets, which will be plentiful when we get to California, Feb. 1. Today Kent dove at Magic Mountain and Shangri-la. Divers like to name their good spots, and he’s diving with a local, who knows where they are. His divemaster's name is Gio, which means "shark" in Fijiian. Who knew? In the afternoon, we hiked an old horse trail, though still sweating hot, the shadows and sun falling behind us, and soft breezes higher up in the mountains helped. Wild horses grazed, framed by gigantic broad leafed foliage, coconut trees and bush. It looks prehistoric. Plenty for horses to eat. Took some pictures of gigantic spiders weaving their webs between the trees. Later, sitting with Roberta (everyone calls her Auntie), watching the family play volleyball while men worked constructing the new bure, we realized that we were staying in a village right here; chickens pecking and birds squawking, children running about, imitating the men; Kent learned to weave split palm to add to the pile that will be placed on the roof tomorrow. That is then covered with a tarp, which is then covered with long grasses…all to keep the rain out (but open on the sides to let breezes slide through). We returned to our bure amidst the clamor of insect sounds and crashing waves. Moce.

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.