village

/'vιlιdZ/ n. 1 a small community or group of houses in a rural area, larger than a hamlet and usually smaller than a town, and sometimes incorporated as a municipality. 2 the inhabitants of such a community collectively.

It’s been a busy few weeks, and I apologise for not writing something here last week.

I guess the highlight since my last post was my visit to Silana. Silana is a small village on the north-east coast of Viti Levu, and as part of my Fijian language class, five of us (plus Savaira, the teacher) went and stayed there two nights. All in all, the experience was fantastic. Rural Fijian life is very different to that of Suva. There is much more of a “traditional” feel to Silana, compared to the “modern” Suva (although I did write about Suva’s time lag in my last blog entry).

We drank lots of yaqona /ja'ŋgona/ (or kava). In some ways we had to. We had to present a big bunch of yaqona roots to the village elders to ask them to let us stay. Then they took the roots away, pounded them up, brought the powder back, mixed it with water, and presented the drink to us as a ceremonial welcome. It was all very solemn, in a dark hall with only a single hurricane lamp as a light, and interspersed with intonations from the men of the village. But once the “official business” was out of the way, it became very social, with chatting and laughing all ’round. We drank yaqona the following morning, to ask permission to go out to the reef and see the dolphins (more about that later). We drank yaqona socially the following night, and then drank more the next morning, because we had to ask politely to leave the village. Then there was more social drinking. I have had more yaqona in the past three days than I’ve ever had in my entire life!

Yaqona is purportedly narcotic. They tell me that if you drink too much, your skin goes all scaly and lizard-like, your eyes become bloodshot, and you have a general attitude of lethargy all the time. Some of the people of Silana stayed up ’til 2am drinking, and then felt terrible the next morning … something akin to a hangover, I guess. To me, it has a slightly bitter taste, but isn’t overly strong. There is a sense of “muddy water”, which I have heard people say about yaqona before. The wooden smell of the bilo, which is the coconut shell in which yaqona is served, is the most dominating thing, I reckon. You are supposed to drink the whole bilo-full in one go (which can be tough if they fill it right to the top — a “high tide”). My lips and tongue tingle ever so slightly after I’ve swallowed it, but really, apart from that, it doesn’t do anything. It’s nothing to rave about at all.

On Saturday morning, we were taken out to the reef on a small motorboat. Once we reached a certain spot, they all started banging the side of the boat, and one man blew a round, breathy tone through a conch shell. The next thing you know, we were surrounded by dolphins! (babale /mba'mbale/ in Fijian). It was awesome. That is the closest I ever remember being to a dolphin in my entire life. Savaira gave me some insight into the whole experience, and it also enlightened me a little in terms of the whole Christianity-versus-culture questions I asked in my “culture” blog entry. Apparently, as part of our yaqona presentation to the man who is the head of the tribe that owns the reef, he asked his ancestors (who are somehow “in” the dolphins, or maybe “are” the dolphins) to be kind to us and give us a good show, and make sure there were plenty of animals to entertain us on that particular day. He would attribute our positive experience with the dolphins (that there were a lot of them, and they came very close to the boat) to the fact that we presented ourselves well and did the right thing by the villagers, and the ancestors. If we hadn’t asked permission to go out to the reef, perhaps the dolphins wouldn’t have come so close to the boat. This same man was in the Methodist church service the next morning. Savaira said that’s how it is for many Fijians … “a foot in both camps,” she said. They will learn and preach about how we’re supposed to be devoted to only one God, and then constantly refer back to their ancestors and the spirits of the land, animals, plants, and water. Because this latter part of their culture is so ingrained, they don’t even seem to be aware of the contradiction. And I’m not sure that any amount of discussion or theological training would be able to change that … It’s very interesting to me.

During the weekend we got to learn about medicinal herbs, and the kinds of plants people grow in their gardens, and we all made our own woven hat! Mine’s a bit sad and sorry-looking. Apparently I didn’t hold the leaves tight enough as I was weaving it together. We slept on the floor, ate a lovo on Sunday afternoon (food cooked for hours on hot stones in the ground), practiced our Fijian, and generally had a great time. I have a much greater appreciation now for those Aussie volunteers who may have had to go to villages like this and live there for twelve months! The whole experience really does make me realise how little Fijian I actually know. “My name is Andrew,” “what is your name?” “I slept well, thank you,” and “this food is very good” can only get you so far …

I also was amazed at how independent the village is. By that, I mean they have very little need for outside interference. They grow their own veges, catch all their own fish, build their own houses, cook their own meals, worship in their own community, look after each others’ children, invite every person who walks past in for dinner (or lunch, or breakfast), care for their own pigs and chickens, socialise together, make their own entertainment, and just generally look out for each other. Occasionally they may have to go to Suva or Korovou for some supplies, and every now and then, a bread truck makes a delivery, but otherwise that’s it. Who cares about the elections in the US? What difference does it make to them whether there’s a war in the Middle East? Why do they need to know about the drought in Australia? Maybe it’s a case of “the grass is always greener …” but that kind of isolation appeals to me in some ways. There is talk of a hotel/resort going up near Silana soon. In my opinion, that’s one of the worst things that could ever happen. Why do stupid Westerners have to go and spoil a perfect, pristine beachside village with their big bucks, day trips, bikinis and multicoloured cocktails? Aren’t there enough resorts around?? I came across a word in the newspaper yesterday. One I’d never seen before: “neocolonialism”. It is a perfect expression for what happens in this country on so many different levels, and why. There are a lot of things in Fiji that could be improved, but the white people coming in with their “we can do it better than you” attitude isn’t going to help at all.

I’m going to get off my soap box now.

Here’s a picture of the six of us on the way home from Silana! This is Savaira, me, Kathryn, Janet, Shane, and Natalie. Do you like us all dressed up in our Sunday best?

Things are winding down for me. School will finish soon. Ruthie has gone home to New Zealand to spend the Christmas break with her friends and family. I’m starting to pack up all my things at the school, and show the staff some final things before I go. Soon I’ll have to start going around and collecting all my belongings, which over the past months have scattered themselves all over the house!

Anyway. I hope everyone is happy and healthy. See you here next week!

Cheers,

Andy

colonialism

/kə'loυniəlızm/ n. 1 the extension of a nation’s sovereignty over territory beyond its borders by the establishment of either settler colonies or administrative dependencies in which indigenous populations are directly ruled or displaced. 2 a set of beliefs used to legitimise or promote such a system.

It’s been a bit up-and-down the past two weeks. Partly because of the weather. (I know I wrote about the weather last time, and that it is perhaps one of the most mundane topics of conversation you could ever want to chat with someone about … still, this is kind of significant, so just bear with me). About a fortnight ago, it rained non-stop for a week. I’m not exaggerating. Non-stop. This past week hasn’t been any better. All the Fijians I work with are asking, “What’s going on with the weather?” so it’s not really something that you could call usual. It started to get me down. There was a break in the clouds a day or so ago, so that was some welcome relief. But anyway … I’m still hopin’ for some good ol’ sunshine.

Contributing to my “down-ness”, I heard two brief anecdotes recently that really got me thinking about the nature of things here in Fiji. The first one went like this:

I was having a cup of tea with my friend Ruth, and she mentioned that a native Fijian was talking to her about the cultural differences between Fijians and Anglo-Saxon people. “We think it’s so great, Ruth, that you’ve really tried hard to bring yourself down to our level,” they commented. This speaks volumes. At our pre-departure training programme (which I thought was fantastic; a real eye-opener) we were really encouraged to make an effort at bridging the cultural gap, and trying to demonstrate interest in the language, mannerisms, and beliefs of the people we work with. I’m glad that when such an effort is made, it’s appreciated. But think about what it means. It means that if Ruth hadn’t tried to behave in a culturally sensitive way, and integrate herself into the community, there would be an automatic assumption that she was in some way “better” than the native Fijians in their own country. It means that Fijians believe (or at least, this one Fijian believes) that Fijians aren’t as good, or worthy, as white people.

The other story came as one teacher I work with, Claudette, was talking about her childhood. She mentioned that her father had served in the British Army, and she was telling about how — because of the influence the regimentation of army life had on him — he ran a fairly strict household. She remembers being taught how to eat her food “properly”, by using a knife and fork.

I guess these short, fairly simple stories might not mean much to many people. But they really got me thinking about the Fijian culture, the nature of the Anglo-Saxon way of life, and my role here.

I generally walk down the street carrying an umbrella under my arm, just in case it starts to rain. There have been several occasions recently where I have imagined how I must look to people. If I was wearing a suit, and maybe a bowler hat, I’m sure I would look like “the perfect English gentleman”. When I catch a taxi, I usually sit in the back seat, smiling mildly out at the locals walking along as we zoom past … “Home, James.” It could just be me, but sometimes I feel like I’m being stared at on the bus, or at least sense curious glances that stray over me just a moment too long. The fact that we have an indigenous Fijian living in our so-called “maid’s quarters”, who comes in to clean our house once a week and “do some work in the gardens” smacks of the “master-servant” relationship.

In some ways, it’s futile. No matter how many Fijian language lessons I take; no matter how many Fijian friends I make; no matter how much I wear a sulu (the traditional wrap-around “skirt” worn by men in Fiji); no matter how many other American, British, Australian, and New Zealander expatriates live and work in Suva; my skin is still white, and I stand out. I’m a kai valagi, /kai βa'laŋi/, a white person — albeit one who is genuinely interested in the people and culture of Fiji.

This is very closely connected to the idea of international “aid”. The “help” that we as Australian volunteers are supposed to be offering the people of Fiji. The very reason we’re here. I have met kai valagi people who are so keen to “make a difference” and “improve the chances” of the Fijians. But I have been asking myself where this motivation comes from. Is it genuine desire to advance the quality of life of Fijians in ways that might otherwise not be available? Or is it trying to make Fijians more “Western”, and less “uncivilised”? (Is there even a distinction between the two questions?) Why do Aussies want to come and volunteer here? Is it to provide better services, or to show the locals “how it should be done”? How close does it all come to racism?

Sometimes I have wanted to scream. “You aren’t beneath us! What are you talking about? You can’t eat properly unless you’re holding cutlery?! Don’t listen to me! What do you think?!” Is there anything inherently wrong with sitting on the floor while you eat your dinner? (What if you can’t afford furniture?) Is there anything wrong with using traditional herbal medicines? (What is the average life expectancy here?) Why do you need to own your own car? (What’s the current level of taxi- and bus-generated pollution?) Who needs a TV? (How much time do people spend here drinking kava and leaving their children to wander round the streets? Is owning a TV a better option?)

I’ve seen some really genuine white people, who are interested in what’s happening, who want to learn, who are sensitive, and act “appropriately”. I’ve also seen some pretty patronising stuff. Like the episode when I was in the supermarket, and the following interaction took place between the Fijian guy working in the shop and the older (I’m embarrassed to say, Australian) female customer:
“Are you sure these cushions will be available if I come back tomorrow?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I don’t want to come back here and find out they’ve all been sold.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Maybe you can keep them aside for me?”
“I’ll do that for you.”
“Well, you just make sure I’ll be able to pick those up tomorrow …”
And then she turned and rushed off down the aisle. But before she disappeared, she realised she’d forgotten something. So, she flicked her head around and said, “… Please!” while the storeperson was left standing, staring at the empty space where she’d just been hurling cursory manners at him.

It’s all very interesting. It makes me sound extremely cynical, and I’m sure (as with most things) these remarks are just sweeping generalisations. I don’t have any answers. But I don’t apologise. These are just things I’ve seen and thoughts I’ve had. Maybe one day it will all make sense.

Tomorrow, I’m going to Caqalai /ðaŋga'lai/ with Wes, Alex, and Kath. It’ll be nice to have a bit of a relaxing time away from the city; I was hoping to finish off the book I’m reading: Life of Pi by Yann Martel (although it sounds like Wes has got a fair bit of activity planned … walking, swimming, snorkelling … Life’s tough, but I’ll struggle through!)

Cheers,
Andy