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