Uvea: Part 2

History lesson 

After visiting Lake Lalolalo we picked up Joe for the school visit. I watched as he cupped his hand under his knee to hoist himself into the car. “These damn legs are too long,” he sighed. The children were running around barefoot on the playground. Curious faces surrounded us. The school principle was wearing a flower tucked to the side of her bun greeted us with a warm smile. 

I asked where I could change into my mu’umu’u for my hula lesson and was escorted into the principle’s office. This was a first. I chuckled as I bent down behind the metal desk. “Make sure you put a flower in your hair,” mom handed me one as I rolled my eyes. Twelve boys and two girls were seated. With great seriousness their teacher Eduardo with introduced Joe as a WW II veteran who served in Uvea. Joe whispered to me, “Gosh, I’m so nervous.” 

“You’ll be fine, you have so much to share,” I assured him.

"Bonjour," he began. He walked with confident determination, just slower and his hand trembled as he spoke. As he pointed to the world map, he traced the routes of armed and naval forces, blockades, battles and military strategies. His hand stopped trembling and glided over the Pacific Ocean with excitement. When his speech ended with long applause 10 year old hands shot up in the air for questions:

“Have you regret your participation in the war?”
“Was it emotional?”
“Did Wallisians participate in the war?”
“Was it difficult to forget?”
“Did you shoot anyone?”
“How did you find Uvea in those days?”
“Were you afraid?”

“Why did you sign up to fight?” asked one of the boys.

Joe turned the question to him. “If someone was attacking your country, would you fight to defend it?”

“Yes,” the boy responded. Joe smiled satisfaction and patriotism.

Joe bent down and a student presented him with a lei. Another presented a pointed wooden spear that looked at though the 5 pointed ends were singed from fire. I wondered if he had carved himself. A blond boy gifted him with a jar of preserved fruit, probably prepared by his mother. A coconut was offered to us. Coconut water tastes so refreshing when the outside temperature is 90+ ! We sipped the sweet water and ate sunset papaya. I took in the moment thinking about the preparation of picking flowers, papaya, and coconut.

For the hula lesson, the desks were pushed to the back of the classroom and we were joined by a class of younger students. To the giggles of the children, I wiggled my 'okole with much exaggeration. The boys sat in the back no doubt enjoying the sight of so many okole's doing an ami circling 'round the island. 

 

Fosio's Recollection

Our final day in Uvea was spent visiting Fosio, whose father had befriended Joe during wartime. Fosio, 85 and his wife took care of my mom when she visited Uvea two decades after Joe. This return trip was to thank Fosio and the Taukapa family for their kindness.  They embraced each other for a long time. An embrace that perhaps comes with time, wisdom, respect, and lives lost.

I was asked to read the introduction to the chapter on Uvea and Joe translated into French. I was acutely aware of hearing the voice of three generations: mine, my mother’s, and Joe’s. Joe came because of his duty, mom came for self-exploration, and I came for the adventure.

My mother had made 5x7 prints of photos that she had taken during her time in Uvea to present to the family. In one of the photos she is wearing a 60's yellow shift dress and stands in the middle of Fosio and his wife Sapolina.

With the book open, Fosio placed the photos on the page. He did not speak and looked at them over and over. His wife Sapolina had passed away a few years ago. Reverence hung in the air. 

I watched Fosio and wondered what he might be thinking, perhaps traveling back in time to when the photo was taken near the stalks of banana trees. It was evident as his finger gripped the photo that he missed his wife. It was a private moment that I felt I shouldn't be watching. 

As we talked and reminisced with his granddaughter and caregiver, Fosio's eyes did not leave the image. These moments you cannot describe—you feel them and they touch you. This was what we came for.

A day at the Motu

The family wanted to take us swimming at a Motu (a small atoll). It was the day before a big rugby competition and the children were let out of school early. At the end of the road was a small inlet of water. Not a harbor in the formal sense, just a place where the road met the water and we could jump in. 

“Is this Lahi?” Joe asked. “This is where I first arrived in Uvea. He saluted and I took a photo.

We piled into a fishing boat. Myself, mom, Noella, the captain of the boat, and six children. Swinging one leg into the boat, I felt the excitement of my childhood. 

When you grow up near the sea you search for where the horizon separates the blue of ocean and sky. You guess how deep the water is by looking at its color. The darker the blue, the deeper you are. You giggle when you see flying fish. At any moment you feel like you can jump out of the boat because you have spent years swimming, playing with the water, hopping over mini waves and riding on their crests. 

Grown ups describe you like a fish in water. On field trips you go to the beach, on weekends you build castles and your friends practice burying you in sand with just your head peeking out. Things are magical. The sparkles of sunlight dance in the ripples of current. When you walk on the beach, you pick up worn sea glass, pop Portuguese man-o’war with sticks and rescue stranded bees.

I know I’ve mentioned this before but let me say it again. My mom was unconventional. During my growing up days it was mandatory to walk the dogs each morning on the beach at 5:45. We were allowed to swim at dusk under the full moon. When my sister and I would do lopsided cartwheels, even if we fell—beach walkers would clap…My childhood looked at me from the eyes of the children on the boat.

They jumped into the water once we anchored the boat off the Motu. As the men lifted mom out of the boat, I kicked off my slippers and pushed down into the white sand. Pineau, Noella’s husband was standing beneath a coconut tree fanning the flies. He came in the morning to prepare for our visit, grilling freshly caught fish, plantains, and steaming taro.

A woven basket held bananas and fruit. Sometimes I am truly caught off guard and ask myself—how did this happen? This was one of those moments when I remind myself where my feet have carried me am grateful.

Farewell to Uvea

It was time for us to move to the next stop on our South Pacific journey. Joe planned on staying in Uvea longer. I had one of those toss and turn nights worried that we wouldn’t wake up on time for our 6 o'clock flight. Joe stumbled out of his room at 4:30 to say good bye as we stood under the stars.

“I feel like I have a new lease on life,” he thanked us. If Joe can say this at 86, you and I have a lot of learning and living.

When we arrived at the airport, the French immigration officials in their short blue navy shorts were wide awake and cheery. We were called to board and Marie Michelle and her sister Noella presented us with seed and shell leis. Tears flowed from Marie Michelle’s face, her stoicism uncloaked. I can’t pretend to know what she was thinking but I know that there was that inexplicable feeling that comes with deep love.

Uvea: Part 1

67 Years Ago

Living in a tent for fifteen months at the edge of a lake filled with eels is a memory Joe Mullins hasn’t forgotten. He came to the island of Uvea a self described green eighteen year old from Chicago’s South Side in 1942, one of 5,000 U.S. Marines sent to serve during World War II. Joe was stationed at Lake Lalolalo in Uvea’s interior with twelve other Marines. American forces were deployed to this remote South Pacific island to protect the region from a Japanese invasion. Uvea, also known as Wallis Island measures nine miles long by five miles wide 

Mom met Joe in Hawaii when their journalism paths crossed. One conversation with Joe about the exotic faraway island where he served during the war and you guessed it she was off to Uvea, arriving 27 years later.

What would it take to realize our dreams? At 86, Joe’s dream was to return to Uvea. Between mom’s forty year reunion in Keiyasi and Joe’s 67 years—I allowed myself to contemplate the passage of time, grateful for being a witness and a participant to history.

We met Joe in Nadi, Fiji. I was startled to find a sleek Czech Airlines aircraft sitting at our gate and asked if we were on the correct flight. Ah! One of the pleasures of traveling are these startling moments, along with completing your immigration form when you’re half asleep and jetlagged that asks have you ever committed a felony or are you bringing in food of any kind, or have you been on a farm in Africa or South America in the past seven days?

Yes, we were on the right flight, I was told. But…the single aircraft normally used for this route, operated by Air Caledonie and based in Noumea was undergoing an annual inspection in Hong Kong.

The Czech Airlines aircraft had been rented for the month, staffed by French and Czech flight attendants. We couldn’t be farther from the Czech Republic sitting on a runway in Nadi, Fiji heading to a tiny island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, I laughed wondering about the journey of things. What an interconnected world!

Joe gazed out the window busy clicking the snap button on his camera from 32,000 tropical feet and forwarding the film spool. I observed him. The veins in his hands like ridges, his craggy profile and eyes the icy blue of a menthol vapor drop. His hair--white shadowed gray and straight, fell to one side. His posture straight with slightly hunched shoulders from carrying his six-foot lanky frame. He wore a white long sleeved shirt and putty cargos. I imagined what he looked like in his youth. Have you done this -- imagine what older people look like in their youth? One day it will be the reverse.

Mom requested wheelchair assistance at the airport but Joe refused: “I will not return to Uvea with help, I want to walk on my own.”

What a remarkable privilege this is, I thought. 67 years. It is incredible to grasp. I’m still collecting and cataloguing my experiences. Hope I’ve got the spunk to travel when I’m in my 80’s. Seems like there’s so much to learn between the bookends of each decade, much to read, and many dots to connect in our quest for the meaning of our lives. How many experiences are waiting for each of us.

As we came into view of the narrow air strip, Joe turned to me. “I helped to build this runway,” he smiled.

Arrival

When we arrived at the tiny air terminal in Wallis, I could tell how hot (temperature wise) it was by looking at the uniforms of the French immigration officials. Pale baby blue short sleeved shirts and very short navy blue shorts.

We walked into a sea of relatives greeting each other. A few women and children walked towards us gently placing Tiare Tahiti leis around our neck. The lei was a bundle of white, interspersed with red flowers, heavy with the scent of love. Tiare Tahiti is one of those prized gifts from nature that I hope you have a chance to experience. There is something very sensual about this flower—maybe it’s an island thing but I loved wearing one tucked behind my ear in high school and strolling down the beach with my friend Mapu, hoping for a double take from the surfers...

There were no words exchanged except for the quiet recognition of Sosepho, Sosepho (Uvean, for Joseph). We piled into two trucks (luggage and kids in the back of the open bed truck) and headed for the section of the island known as Mata Utu where we would be staying. A girl of about nine or ten with wavy brown hair sat next to me smiling. I realized if I wanted to have a conversation with little Mele and her cousins I’d have to recall my high school French which surprisingly came back albeit a little fractured. Thank goodness children are forgiving, correcting my faux-pas when I tripped over my words.

Some friendships are born of the most unique circumstances. We were hosted by the family of Marie Michelle one of the daughters of Fosio Taukapa. During wartime, Joe was befriended by Fosio’s father who worked on a plantation and supplemented his income by washing the marines’ laundry. The friendship developed and Fosio’s father taught Joe the language of Uvean. And the young man from the South Side of Chicago became one of only a handful of marines to master the language at that time.

We had been invited for dinner that evening. The house of Marie Michelle appeared as though it was carved out of the forest. We took our seats; children at one table and adults at the other. For a moment, I wished I could sit with the kids. No joke. There was giggling and a lightness that I was drawn to. The table was a feast of fresh fish, sausage, barbecue chicken, taro, potato, corn, and crab salad, made by Stella, (another daughter of Fosio), a crisp green salad, and a bottle of smooth French red wine. “Do you always eat like this?” mom asked. “No, we have prepared this especially for you.”

This is something I’ve experienced with islanders, their hospitality and gracious spirit, with playful delight, without expectation. One truly feels you will be taken care of. The security of that feeling is precious. After reminiscing and marveling at Joe’s speaking Uvean and French, we topped off the evening with French vanilla ice cream. In the hot tropics it tasted extra nice. Eduardo, a son in law of Fosio, asked if Joe would come and speak to his class about his experience in Uvea during the war. Mom volunteered that I would be happy to give a hula lesson (thanks mom). Eduardo jumped on it acknowledging that the kids were big fans of Disney’s Hawaiian themed Lilo and Stitch.

The Lake of Mystery

The next morning, Marie Michelle’s sister Noella picked us u

p for a visit to Lake Lalolalo. I was anxious to see the mysterious place that Joe described in the Uvea chapter of mom’s book and happy to be on a new adventure. My mind tried to piece together the thought of young marines camping out here. Far, isolated, from their lives back home. How different my life was when I was their age. I was enrolling in classes for college, where the hardest decision was how heavy a course load I could handle. The young Marines decades ahead help build basic infrastructure for a community.

The lake was a perfectly round deep crater filled with clear pine green water. Black birds flew across the sky. My eyes traced the edges and I thought about how scary it might have been for Joe. He shared with me that for security reasons he was not allowed to burn fires, take photos, or use lights at night. The men took turns patrolling the camp at night alert to the slightest movement amidst fruit bats, birds, boars, wildlife, and thick jungle. The slightest movement or hint of rustling in the darkness of night would be frightening especially to a young marine unused to the sounds of a jungle.

I fumbled with my Nikon digital SLR which I am forever learning to use. “You take too long to take a photo,” mom chastised me. “You’re going to lose the photo op messing with all the settings.”

I know. I know. But maybe I’ll get one good shot. I cursed the viewfinder and LCD screen. Can you imagine the days when our parents had to just risk it, not knowing whether it was a good picture until the film was developed?

Noella, smiled patiently. “Before you could not drive here, now you can drive almost up to the edge of the lake.” That was a definite change since my mom and Joe had been here. During those days— you had to hike to reach the lake. And if you were really brave you slid down on a rope and went for a swim.

Noella and Levani

Earlier that morning I shared a coffee on the veranda of our hotel with Joe captivated by his stories and wisdom. The memory of his times in Uvea are close. He doesn’t live in the past, but respects it. “Many of my colleagues still live as if it’s 1942,” Joe shared with me. He was glad to be keeping with the times learning to use the Internet, (in fact he researched the flights for us to get to Wallis). 

In addition to a lifelong study of the Uvean language and culture, he speaks fluent Polish and is studying Catalan and French. Joe decided to stay back during our visit to Lake Lalolalo because he wanted to prepare “some notes for my lecture to the class.” Like a college student, English-French dictionary in one hand and a red pen in the other—I watched for a few moments as he hand wrote a short course in the history of World War II for a class of ten year olds... (continued on the blog titled Uvea: Part 2)

Nuku'i'lau Village, Fiji

Under the mango tree

After a breakfast consisting of a cup of Milo, chocolate chip biscuits and bread, we ventured out to another village an hour and a half from Keiyasi with the chief’s younger brother Borisi. Borisi is a large man. Fijians are known for being tall but Borisi was tall and large. I kept looking at his hand thinking that I could fit three of mine in one of his. Back in the day, when there was no road my mother trotted her way to the village of Nuku’i’lau by horse. Our driver carefully maneuvered his gears as we climbed and descended the gravel road passing large hills and brush driving very slowly along single lane bridges. My heart sped up a few beats over each bridge, they seemed like they were dangling, desperately in need of repair. We were told “the road is not good,” but no one told us “the road is only half a road and doesn’t really exist.”

We came to an open area with a few trees one of which had been knocked over on its side, roots upturned from a recent thunderstorm. Borisi pointed. “Do you remember that is where you would rest your horse? Under that mango tree.” He started to laugh and then continued.

 “I was only five then!”  It never ceases to amaze me the things that stand out in our databank of memories. 

It also amazes me how people find their way on unmarked roads…Using landmarks instead. You become acutely aware of your 

environs and the natural shifting that occurs. Hang a left at the coconut tree. The road narrowed but was just a little wider than the old Land Rover in which we bumped along. We squeeze past two horses on the bank of the Sigatoka river and halted. Borisi disappeared past banana and coconut trees to notify someone from the village committee of our arrival. He returned with a concerned look on his face. “I think it’s too far for your mother to walk to the bure. You have to walk through the village.” 

Surrounding the village was a two line barbed wire fence. After some careful negotiation and discussion one of the men returned carrying a large machete. He hacked the nail on a wooden post to which the barb wire hung. Borisi and his big bare hands, held one piece of barbed wire fence down and the other up and said “There you go, climb through.” Before ducking under the fence, my mother pulled up her mu’umu’u to reveal her impressive knee replacement scar from almost two years ago. “I have an artificial knee,” she smiled and then slowly ducked through the fence to make it through.

We took the shortcut through the village past a line of laundry, skinny dogs, and chickens. When I walk through a village, I take my time taking a panoramic photo in my mind. Once I saw a picture book where there were photographs of families and their possessions from all over the world. You could tell a person’s socioeconomic status from the photo. The house told the story of their lives.

It might just be the nature of my work, looking at life through an international development lens but looking at a family’s house, I observe who has a thatched hut or a galvanized roof and if the walls of the house are made of natural fibers or concrete—the durability of the materials used and how many and what kind of livestock if any, a family owns. Livestock and animals in village terms can serve as food but also serve as currency when trading for other goods. I look for the toilet. Most likely it is a latrine located a little afar from the house with a pit in the ground and hidden by woven leaves or covered with burlap sacks. I consider where the nearest water source is and in this case – Nuku’i’lau has the gift of being situated along the river allowing children to splash about, men and boys to fish and catch prawns, and women to bathe their children and do laundry.

We entered the bure. Efforts were made to give my mom a chair which appeared as though it was on its last leg and a deep depression in the middle of the chair probably had seen many ‘okoles. I sat below her on the ground shooing the mosquitoes and hot air. Mom made her speech, a few Fijian phrases rolled off her tongue. She remembered her horse, Turagi-ni-koro (mayor of the village) and joked that perhaps his grandson was still alive! The serious tone cracked and there were giggles and smiles. 

I looked into the faces—meeting eyes with the youth. I wondered what they wondered. How their relations and elders remember a different time, decades ago when mom was probably their age--in her 20s. I heard a echo of Appenisa, the chief’s grandson who told us in the car on the way to Keiyasi—“I’ve heard so much about you from my grandmother.” That’s the thing about when you travel—when you connect with people, you become a part of their history and they become a part of yours. They listened intently and my mom presented her book. They pointed to the picture of Keiyasi identifying  relatives in the photo of the white horse standing in the Sigatoka river. When mom ended her speech with vinaka vaka levu, thank you, someone spoke up. “Aunty, tell us more stories.”

And mom began with one more story about the time that she was riding with some friends and then asked them to stay back on the trail as a joke so she could ride into a neighboring village alone---a kavalangi woman in the isolated wilderness on horseback appearing out of nowhere. Yes, mom was full of mischief and still is. Eventually, her friends joined her in the village and all was well.

Travel where you have never gone before.

Sometimes I feel like mom and I wear LCD signs on our forehead that flashes: Come with us—the Lipton ladies, we’ll take you places you have never been.

We were returning home to Keiyasi when our jeep began to skid backwards on a steep hill and our driver panicked calling out “Oh Jesus!” He then explained that he was worried that this might happen because his vehicle was not equipped for off roading, he did not bring the right tires and that if we broke down he would have to get the parts from Australia. He was used to traveling to regular tourist destinations—airport pickups, resorts drop-offs, boat trips, sightseeing, and driving along the paved Queen’s road between Nandi and Suva. We were far from all of that—deep in the interior. One way in and one way out—if you were traveling by four wheel. A horse would have been more reliable.

We were on the edge of a cliff. With a calm that betrayed my fear and concern, I said “I think we should get out of the car.” Mom, Borisi and I carefully got out of the car, while our driver gunned his engines. I held my breath considering what it would be like to overnight here. Finally the car began to move climbing each bump uphill like a turtle in slow motion eventually disappearing in a cloud of dust. It was the noontime heat of the day—the kind that makes beads of sweat fall like rain. Borisi took one hand and I took the other hand of my mom and we very very slowly climbed the hill. 

The thought occurred to me for a split second, that we might just be left behind (because it almost happened to mom and I last year while on a trip to India on another road with a driver who was fumed that his van was not equipped to take us to the village where we were visiting a project for a tribal community). Once we arrived at the top of the steep hill—the jeep was there, covered in dust.

Back to School

We may not have had a choice about which road to travel to the village but we did know that education can often lead to a road of opportunity and that was our next destination. Mom and I usually make a point of asking about education as it sometimes is an indicator of a family’s economic state and a predictor of a child’s future. 

We headed to Navosa Central College, the local school a short walk from Keiyasi village with this intention as we had been told that primary school was free but secondary school (equivalent to intermediate in the US) had fees. Many families could not afford tuition, books, and uniforms and hence their children dropped out. 

Here’s another thing I've found when traveling, that going to school is seen as a privilege more than a routine and daily occurrence. Children know that it’s a gift to sit in a classroom expanding their minds with knowledge. They look forward to it. Most parents want their children to go to school. More often than not, it is out of necessity that they employ them to help support the family. Sometime’s I feel like kids back at home think of school as a drag and can’t wait till it’s over. We take our literacy and the power that comes with it for granted.

Knowing this, mom decided that the best way she could say thank you to the communities of Keiyasi and Nuk’i’lau was to “invest in future generations”  by providing scholarships for secondary school students. We met with the school principle, a man with a gentle face who had left his community fourteen years earlier to work here. His village was far away and he returns home to his family during holidays. 

We sat in his tiny office with light green walls and windows without screens. I asked about the current situation of the school. The principle shared that at the moment the science lab was not operating because they didn’t have supplies and equipment. I thought of my friend Mahin whose biotech company has donated laboratory equipment to universities in other countries. I wondered what it would take to ship equipment from a port in New England to the port of Suva crossing the Atlantic and the Pacific united by the fact that both were former British colonies. And yet were worlds apart. I wished there was a way to get basic equipment out to this small village, things like Bunsen burners and microscopes, beakers, pipettes, catalysts and reagents. But then again when you live in a village—life around you becomes your laboratory.

I came out of my dreaming launching into reality and practical mode. The mode in which I ask questions about numbers, statistics, budgets, outcomes, and issues of transparency and accountability. School fees came to about 60-90 US dollars per student per year and slightly more for students who were boarding from Nukui'lau village which did not have a secondary school. Yes, for the price of a nice sweater and for less than the price of an iPod we could send a student to school. I live for these moments of comparative calculation.

Aloha Keiyasi

The women sat in three rows on the steps of the bure of Keiyasi. A young woman put talcum powder on our cheeks (a sign of joy) and presented each of us with a salusalu (lei) made of fragrant ixoria, frangipani, and shredded ti leaves shiny with coconut oil.

In the next moment in rich harmony and unison the women began to sing Isa Lei…sung as a friend who is departing to remind them of Fiji. It moved me and at this moment, I caught a glimpse of the tenderness and love that my mom must have felt. My heart was full but my eyes were heavy as I left my tears in Keiyasi.

Keiyasi Village, Fiji - October 25

My mother could not wait. Perhaps if I were returning to a place after forty years—I might be a little anxious too. Less than 24 hours after flying into Nadi, Fiji we journeyed by four wheel drive from Sigatoka, past beaches and coconut trees leaning towards the seashore, and open Pacific blue sky. We headed for the village of Keiyasi where my mom first experienced Fiji.

We drove past villages listening to We are blessed and other spirituals selected by our driver. Mom offered to change the music to a Hawaiian CD that she’d brought. Mr. Prasad told us he’d have to stop and get out of the car and remove the CD player located under his seat which on a narrow gravel road was not a good idea.

Along for the nearly three hour journey was the grandson of the chief—a quiet, tall young man of twenty-three currently a law student at the University of the South Pacific. He didn’t say much and his eyes watched the road.

Arriving in Fiji was a fortunate accident for my mom who was on her way to someplace else. Isn’t that how it always happens? We think we know the journey that we will take and then life seems to have a different plan carrying us in a different direction, changing our route, and our life’s compass.

At the time my mom, an aspiring photojournalist was headed for the Kingdom of Tonga on assignment with four boxers and a boxing commissioner. The wing of the plane nearly fell off and had to stop in Suva, Fiji. With a week to spare until a replacement aircraft was found, she asked for a recommendation on where should could experience real Fiji. The boxing commissioner gave her a scrap of paper scribbled with two names and a warning that it was too far into the bush to venture. Ignoring the warning, she snuck out of the hotel and boarded a bus the next morning with the name of a chief and the wife of a taxi driver. Eight hours and two buses later she arrived at the last stop, Keiyasi village, in the highlands of the island of Viti Levu. She was accompanied by a fellow passenger and a bag of roots which she was told to present to the chief for a sevu sevu ceremony.

You may be thinking what I was thinking upon journeying to Keiyasi for the first time as her daughter in this millennium. My mother was nuts. As I was about to find out---my mother’s presence was anything but forgotten. Sometimes, certain people leave an indelible human footprint on the lives of others. Such was the case with mom.

From the time we boarded the Air Pacific flight from Honolulu, I began to see how locals reacted to my mom: the fair skinned, freckled, green eyed, kai valagi woman who carries a tush cush for her arthritic back and a Japanese Tokidoki cartoon purse—just for the whimsy.

She told the flight attendant: “I am kai colo” (pronounced Thyolo). I am from the interior, from the highlands -- (the bush).” “Na yacaqu o Kalesi.” My [Fijian] name is Kalesi. The flight attendant put her hand to her mouth and started to giggle. And each time—the response would be a deep breath and an inhale with a single word: “I-----sa.” Meaning (ohhhhh). Or Io. (Yes?!).

When we arrived in Keiyasi, night was about to fall. We pulled up to a bure, a traditional building with a thatched roof made of pandanus and local grasses used as a community meeting place. We were escorted into the bure by a side entrance of steps and sat down apart from the chief facing about thirty people. Men in front. Women in back.

Peni, a man with a graying mustache that curled at either end welcomed us. His words were long and drawn out. A young man sat guarding the tanoa, a huge wooden bowl with a rope made of coconut fibers, decorated with buli, white shells at the end (usually outstretched towards the chief guest). The bowl contained yaqona (a root which had been pounded and mixed with water into a murky brown liquid which has a numbing, tranquilizing effect when consumed). Two coconut shell cups swirled the liquid in the bowl and it was poured into a polished coconut shell bowl and presented to my mother. You are supposed to clap once and then drink the bowl in one go. Then those who are welcoming you, clap in return. The coconut shell bowl was dipped in the Tanoa and poured into a separate coconut shell cup for the chief. Lastly, it was dipped for a third time and handed to me. “Is your tongue feeling numb?” My mother asked. “Yes,” I nodded. “That’s what you’re supposed to feel,” mom whispered. My cup was filled with four different welcomes. Whew!

Uraia, a friend of mom's helped her to craft a speech entirely in Fijian. Her voice began shaky and then gained momentum as she thanked the people of Keiyasi for taking care of her. She remembered the chief and the taxi driver’s wife who had passed away. She reminded everyone that Fiji held a special place in her heart. She introduced me. I can’t quite describe the feeling except that it was very humbling.


Sheree with Turaga-ni-koro Waisaki Nasewe (Chief of Keiyasi Village)


After the speeches of gratitude and remembrance, we moved to a small one story concrete house with a tin shed roof where we sat on the floor to a meal of fish, dalo (taro), and tomatoes. There is no electricity in Keiyasi, but we were informed that it was on its way…Perhaps in another six months as other villages a few miles down the road were wired. The interior of the house was painted a light baby blue and decorated with fabric remnants layer upon layer so that the entire room was insulated with flowers and patterns that looked like a patchwork quilt. The ceiling was lined with recycled white raffia sacks stamped with the blue and red logo of FMF--Flour Mills of Fiji. The windows looked out on the other homes in the village landscaped with red and green Ti leaves. “Once they were all thatched bures,” mom lamented. “Now they are concrete.”

While a village elder wove a mat nearby, we spent the evening talking story. Mom again and again repeated the names of everyone who befriended her and then asked about all their children. How she recalled their names was marvelous to witness. We were among progeny and younger generations and they too, felt honored. We spent time with Ani, a recent double amputee who suffered from diabetes. We discussed the possibility of a wheelchair or prosthetics to help her move around instead of having to crawl.

We talked about the fly problem, water situation, small health clinic staffed by one nurse, and the education of the children in the village. Life had changed but also remained the same for the people of Keiyasi. They seemed content in the day to day activities planting dalo, cassava, and sending young boys to fish from the Sigatoka river just down the hill.


Adjoining the eating area were two small rooms, each the width of a full size bed and separated from the family room by a curtain hung on a piece of string. Two women graciously gave their beds for the night so we could sleep comfortably under the mosquito net. Everyone else slept on the floor on woven mats in the same space where we ate, some of the elders using their arms as a pillow.


Levani with students at Navosa Central College in Keiyasi

What began as a peaceful evening became, well an event-filled night. Sleeping with a family of more than ten filled the evening with symphony of snoring in different octaves.

Then there were dog fights. I lay in bed staring at holes in the mosquito net wondering what they were fighting about and how many dogs were fighting (it sounded like eight). A baby began to cry and his mother hushed him to sleep over and over. The crying woke up the elders who scolded the mother to quiet the baby. My eyes were heavy and I was finally beginning to doze when the village rooster decided to sound the alarm crowing outside of my window. It’s still dark and it must be around 3:30 a.m., I thought. 

Once more, I tried to let sleep envelope me but then mom needed to make a trip to the outhouse. I stumbled, grabbed my mini mag lite and escorted her past the symphony of snoring. We navigated our way around bodies, past the baby crying in the room to our left and the kitchen on our right. I unbolted the door, put on some slippers, and ventured to the outhouse in the darkness with my eyes half closed.

The next morning we asked our driver how he slept. He was invited to sleep up at the police post—where they gave him a mattress to sleep on the floor. “I didn’t sleep. The mosquitoes were singing in my ears,” he replied. I just had to laugh.

Vasamaca weaving a mat.

 Levani with our Keiyasi family

E Komo Mai -- Welcome!

Welcome to my blog! Each of us has a story to tell. For my mom, well, what can I say except that she is quite the adventurer. For years her friends have asked her to write the stories that she often shares during gatherings. A Woman in the South Pacific came into fruition in July 2009 after 10 years of writing. As her daughter I have read many of the drafts, gave my thoughts and most of all my encouragement. I made a point of telling my mom that this book is her legacy. I feel blessed that she undertook the discipline and effort to write it. It takes a lot to dig deep recounting memories, 

some with joy, others with sadness. Sometimes it's uncomfortable and yet this vulnerability is how we connect our experiences to each other. This book is a labor of love and a tribute to many of the characters that my mother encountered who are no longer alive...

I feel honored and am continuously amazed at her fortitude. When I told my friends and family that I was going on the trip of a lifetime to revisit some of the places my mom wrote about 30+ years ago they asked if I would write and send photos from the field. This is my humble attempt. It is personal, not academic, or technical...Just my thoughts and photos. I invite you to come along for the journey and hope that you will enjoy it! 

Aloha, Levani

P.S. Learn more at www.southpacificwoman.com

The book is available from the website and www.amazon.com

Author Sheree Lipton with friends during book launch in Honolulu--August 2009

Levani with friends Ginger and Rise during Hawaii book launch