Chapter 6: The Fiji Islands

 

Suspended in an otherwise cerulean sky, sparsely scattered and puffy cumulus hung propitiously above the face of the gentle seas. But a low-lying haze prevented us from sighting volcanic Late Island until we were within a dozen miles of it. A gentle, late August quartering breeze filled the cruising spinnaker and loafed the brig along effortlessly at 5 knots. Thus we traveled pleasantly beneath chute alone for two days.

Then at sunrise, while passing between the islands of Ongea Levu and Vatoa, and now in Melanesian waters, we encountered a weather trough. The wind slackened and the dark skies burst forth a copious downpour. We dowsed the spinnaker, which only wrapped tenaciously about the bowsprit, and for the next several minutes we had to coax the drenched spread of ethereal nylon back into captivity.

The weather conditions suggested a turn for the worse, so we steered north and motored for Ongea Levu in hopes of finding protected anchorage in the event of a sudden blow. But by noon the wind steadied and the skies began clearing, so we pressed on toward Suva. Unbeknown to us, some of the yachts that had departed Tonga a day ahead of us, were being hammered in a vicious on-shore gale near Suva, so our decision to linger the extra day in Tonga proved a timely one.

In the south-west Pacific one encounters a noteworthy atmospheric phenomenon. With the passing of a trough, the wind will slowly back around the compass, full circle. We had first experienced this in Bora Bora, and had witnessed it many times since. The south-east trade winds will be blowing strongly when clouds will speedily form and begin sputtering rain. Then the south-easterlies will shift east, north-east, and so on. When they are blowing due south the trough is supposedly directly overhead.

The many beautiful islands we were passing by were altogether enticing, but Fijian regulations forbade one's stopping at any of these before clearing-in at an official port of entry on the big island of Viti Levu. Nevertheless, as we made way toward Moala Island we decided to find an anchorage for the evening.

We attempted to enter a pass through the reef on the east side of the island. The wind was now favorable, but a late afternoon sun glared from directly ahead, and obscured whatever lay beneath the water's surface. In our path we could see nothing of the sea bed, even though here the water was pellucid and somewhat shallow. Nevertheless, it seemed safe to ease our way in at a snail's pace, until suddenly we found ourselves in shoal waters strewn with sinister coral heads. Suddenly we became aware of Suka's motion as she heaved in the incoming swell, and that this swell was shoving her into the lagoon. The next few moments were dire ones. Jenny hollered her precipitate warnings and I swung the helm hard over and gunned the engine. We narrowly averted wrecking the ship.

Shaken, we sailed around the island to its north and west, and regaining the offing we resumed our journey to Viti Levu.

The following day dawned clear. The wind had slackened so we motor-sailed toward the big island, now clearly visible on the horizon. I was sitting idly at the helm when suddenly I saw an uncharted reef a short distance ahead. I swung the helm hard over, and the "reef" blew a cloud of hissing steam. A whale, perhaps twice Suka's length remained motionless at the surface, appearing as a glistening black submarine bereft of its conning tower. Due to its great mass, it was not bobbing with the swell as was Suka. Rather, the swells were breaking over its back like surf on a beach. After going around it, we left behind this massive, mobile navigational hazard, feeling duly reminded of the hazards of sailing at night.

Suva, Fiji

Mid afternoon we entered the harbor and anchored in 5 fathoms of murky water off the Royal Suva Yacht Club, among perhaps 30 other yachts. The health officials came out in a skiff, granted us pratique, then asked us to lower our yellow Q Flag. As the day was late, customs and immigration would not see us until the following morning, when we were to move to the wharf at their convenience. Meanwhile, we were constrained aboard. Nevertheless, not to miss our sailor's "Saturday" night, after dark we slipped ashore and attended the yacht club's Sunday barbecue.

The barbecue proved a low key and a most enjoyable affair. We were glad to visit with old friends and meet new ones, to compare travel notes, and to learn of the city's vagaries from the "old-timers" - our antecedents of one or two days.

The next morning we rose early and found a thick fog pervading the scene. The conditions were perfect for shrouding me from the allegedly nefarious customs officials, said to be fond of wielding international maritime law with a poetic license. So I engaged in the time-honored technique of illicitly delivering our sack of grog to a neighboring yacht. Later that same morning the hapless crew of another yacht, Bali Hai, declared their booze and was penalized 30 dollars duty. Legally, dutiable stores are to be sealed in the bond locker during the ship's stay in port, and duty is to be paid only on what is otherwise consumed. But one of the hallmarks of petty officialdom is the padding of pockets at the yachtee's expense. So like foxes venturing into unfamiliar territory we were learning to beware the snares.

After we had waited for the arrival of the immigration functionaries nearly all day, while fending Suka away from the under-cut wharf, built for large ships, the officials finally came and cleared us.

Returning to the anchorage, we set the CQR well out from the shallows, and then ventured ashore and sped into town on a taxi ride that cost the equivalent of 20 cents each. Little of the afternoon remained, and we used it to best advantage, sauntering about Albert Park while intermingling with the crowds at some sort of a festivity. The grassy square was lined with hundreds of makeshift booths, the vendors of which were proffering generally savory morsels of what we did not know, but 20 cents for three. The indulgence left us wondering whether our gastrointestinal tracts would survive the night.

In the ensuing few days the city's ambiance drew us to it almost magnetically. We wandered among the bewildering variety of duty-free shops, and frequented the occasional Indian restaurant. This was the week of the Hibiscus Festival and the place bustled with activities, including parades, ceremonies, and programs at the fairgrounds.

Island Night

Island Night at the Civic Center proved a favorite. The show comprised about a dozen dance troupes representing various Pacific Island nations, and we enjoyed the entertainment. Although some were reminiscent of Hollywood acts, others were genuine: the dancers from the Gilbert Islands, from the Tuvalus, and from Rotuma were obviously singing and dancing as they did at home. Their performances were enthralling, and these simple and unassuming people had us imagining we were sitting on the beaches of their islands or atolls. I've never heard a professional sing with such euphony as did these warm people of the mighty South Pacific.

A lack of musical instruments was no obstacle to those who knew how to dance and sing. For the majority, the only implement needed was a cardboard box, thoroughly brutalized with the rhythmic pounding and knocking of many large sticks. Sometimes a box was "played" with a slow, measured thwacking of a single stick. And some groups used sticks against the wood stage floor to hammer out their lusty rhythms.

The finale was a spell binding stick dance by a group of blue-black skinned men of the Solomon Islands, who ran onto the stage painted with black and white stripes and circles, and clad in brief loincloths that left the buttocks bare. The costumes, or rather the lack of them and the sensuous dancing sent women in the audience into shrieks. Fifteen wild and brutish men, entirely savage in appearance, jumped about furiously in a seemingly unrestrained but unaccountably orderly fashion. They bashed stout and colorfully embellished staves against the floor and against each other's staves to an aggressive, throbbing cadence wailed upon a gallon-size tin can. How those fellows managed to avoid crushing at least one skull in the melee defied the imagination.

Ndravuni Island

The next day we replenished Suka's fresh water and diesel tanks with several trips ashore with an assortment of plastic jugs. We planned to depart for the Astrolabe Reef that morning, but the day was fog-bound. That, and the sniveling colds we had acquired in the city suggested we postponed the trip a few days.

Two thirty a.m, September 9, we weighed and made way slowly out of the harbor in the blackness of night. Suka showed only a small masthead light in order that her skipper and mate might glean the most of their night vision. At one point we saw a light undulating strangely close off the starboard beam. Drawing closer, we discerned an apprehensive native fisherman, flashlight in hand, paddling out of our way. A few times we stopped dead in the water to shoot a round of flashing buoy light bearings. I had carefully identified and plotted the harbor buoys the night previously, and now used this data to more safely exit the channel.

Gaining the offing, we motored until first light, whereupon a breeze sprang to life. The billowing sails worked nicely to curb Suka's odious rolling, and sent her ambling along at a cheery five knots.

The beacon on the northern sector of the Astrolabe Reef is easily discerned from afar, despite the fact that it stands atop a rock only ten feet high; for the obelisk itself stands 103 feet tall. We closed the reef at mid day and entered one of the passes. Then closing Ndravuni (dra-voo'-nee) Island, we lowered the 45 pound CQR into three and a half fathoms of crystal clear, aquamarine water. Behind the dazzling white sand beach stood a small village, where resided the king of the principality. We had come to clear-in with him.

The following morning we motored the dinghy ashore against stiff headwinds and dashes of spray, intent on paying our respects to the king and meeting some of the people.

We strolled through the ramshackle village comprising widely spaced, cement-walled and tin-roofed houses encompassed with tidy yards. A few islanders sat in the shade of a tin-roofed portico, weaving baskets of green coconut fronds. Bob, as he introduced himself, was a slightly built fellow in his thirties perhaps. He assumed the role of ambassador and escorted us to one of the small buildings to meet with the king. Bob followed us in, sat unobtrusively to one side, and kindly translated.

"They caught some large fish last night," the interpreter beamed.

"That's great," I replied, "what kind were they?"

Thus the conversation proceeded, while the king remained indifferent, for as it happened he was suffering the flu. We learned that a few islanders had unknowingly imported the epidemic when they had last visited Suva.

Eventually we made gestures to go, and I could see that the king's face bore certain misgivings, no doubt at our having neglected to present him with the traditional kava root. In a Suva market we had purchased a batch for this occasion, but I had been withholding it to test his reaction. From my pack I withdrew the large bouquet of kava root and laid it before him. Relieved that we had indeed remembered this formality, he broke into a grin and gestured appreciatively. Thanking us for the weedy fodder, he remarked that this was indeed a fine batch. To us, though, it seemed about as appealing as a bundle of tumbleweeds.

"You are welcome to come and go on our islands as you please," the king granted, via his translator. "Catch fish, collect shells, but please do not shoot the goats."

Bob led us through the village to another dwelling, where we found eight men seated cross legged, playing a card game. The men invited us to sit with them on the matting, and an attendant handed me a half-coconut shell of kava. Down in one draft, hand the cup back, and clap - and try not to think of any possible flu germs on the cup. Same cat-o'-nine-tails for Jenny.

In halting English, a fellow named Max expounded some of the social particulars and customs of the local populace. The traditional Fijian thatched-roofed house, the "mbure," he explained, has become a relic of the past due to its weakness in withstanding hurricanes. A few years ago, the government supplied the expertise and materials to build these much stronger concrete walled and tin roofed structures. The population of Ndravuni stood at 103, and most of those were small children. When a house was to be built, a plantation cleared and planted, or whatever the task, the villagers worked together as a family, Max explained.

The local coconut trees stood largely bereft of their fronds, in the wake of a few particularly vehement cyclones that two years ago had struck copra from the list of the local mainstays. Aside from any government aid, fishing was presently one of the two occupations. Once a week a few intrepid souls would deliver the community's catch to Suva by launch, and return with a modest cargo of ice, used to preserve the next week's fishing harvest. Also they would bring a few barrels of diesel oil to power the newly-installed electric generator, which most Ndravunians admitted to having little use for. During the most recent excursion they had also imported the aforementioned flu virus.

The second primary source of income was the selling of handicrafts. Eight times a year a cruise ship anchored in the lagoon and disgorged some 1500 tourists. For the occasion, villagers would arrive from the surrounding islands to sell their assorted sea shells and handicrafts.

After enduring three cups of kava and hoping that the drink's supposed narcotic was potent enough to subdue any flu viruses, against the obvious fact that it was not, we bid our Ndravunian hosts good by and set off; but not before withdrawing a large bag of popcorn from my pack and presenting it to the group. All eyes brightened with interest.

A Snorkeling Excursion

Later that afternoon Jenny and I set off in the dinghy for a snorkeling excursion among the fringing reefs. Among the profusion of colorful coral, sponges and smaller reef fish, in two hours of diving I saw one large Triton shell, two moray eels, one barracuda about my size, and one five-foot reef shark. Engrossed in our fishing, the shark and I discovered one another at the same moment. A sudden jolt throughout my autonomic nervous system caused my body to jump with a start, as though struck with high voltage: known as panic. This was not unusual. But the shark's reaction was unusual. With my sudden start, the aquatic beast did the same, only amplified.

With my new spear gun, I put the bead on three or four tantalizing fish, but in each instance the gun's safety mechanism malfunctioned, preventing the gun from firing at the appropriate moment - much to the good fortune of my intended prey. So spaghetti was once again the evening's bill of fare.

Ashore, the power was switched on, as indicated by a few fluorescent bulbs glowing into the sultry, tropical night.

Attending Church Service

Sunday morning we ventured ashore dressed in our church-going best: reasonably clean shirts, shorts for me, and a skirt for Jenny. At the church we met Kiti, a woman we had talked with previously, and who was busy teaching a group of well-mannered children their Sunday school lessons. Kiti welcomed us warmly, then turned and continued her lesson.

At ten o'clock the bell ringer struck the split drums a few times, and the church began filling. After the usher had shown Jenny and I to seats directly in front of pulpit, the service began. The islanders sung a-capella a few standard hymns, and we were able to sing along by knowing the tunes and by reading the native words in a hymn-book. This performance surprised the natives, who for a few moments thought that we might be conversant in their language. Then the women stood in a ring and performed a few strange incantations in monotone, traditional chants that seemed to amalgamate the old and the comparatively new. And at last a distinguished gentleman came forward, and extended to us a formal welcome in English.

"Mr. Ray and Jenny, I presume." We nodded. "The congregation is very pleased to welcome you to our services. May God bless you and grant you safety in your travels."

With no little enthusiasm the pastor presented his sermon in their language, while Kiti sat alongside of us, pointing out the scriptural references in her Fijian Bible, which we then matched in ours.

At the conclusion of the service Kiti invited us to her home for lunch. She lived in a two room house with her niece, who helped prepare today's lunch over a kerosene burner. They were both apologetic about not having much food of interest. "There is a small grocery shop here," Kiti explained, "but I have no money to buy." Giggling with embarrassment, she spread her small table with plates brought from a linen closet for the occasion. The meal was delicious. It comprised two types of fish, one broiled and the other baked in coconut juice with Chinese cabbage, and a dish of tapioca. And Kiti's neighbor, Max, happened by and contributed a bowl of fried fish and more tapioca.

After lunch we gave Kiti several women's magazines, and two meters of tapa-printed cloth, purchased in Suva. She studied the magazine attentively, and with a gleam in her brown eyes, pointed out a picture of a model. "Look, blue eyes," she exclaimed to Jenny.

Mara Island

After whiling away a few days anchored near the village, we set sail for the uninhabited island of Mara, three miles distant. There we anchored under the island's lee in 20 feet of the clearest water imaginable. Fronted by a magnificent white sand beach, Mara Island was lush compared to over-cultivated and cyclone ravaged Ndravuni.

After many hours snorkeling, unfettered of toggery as befitting the local custom on this uninhabited tropical island, we pulled ashore and climbed to the island's highest summit. There we met with a stunning view in all directions. Discernible in the distance lay the great Astrolabe Reef, barely awash and extending across the eastern horizon as an unbroken line of pale green, backed by the deep blue of the Pacific.

Although the sun shone hot, the gentle trade winds provided ample air conditioning, so the day was most pleasant. We wandered down to the beach, and in about two hours strolled around the island's perimeter. The beach combing was more rewarding that we expected, for we found a World War II artillery shell, presumably live and left undisturbed. Also two chambered nautilus shells and a particularly beautiful swimming cove, dived into with abandon. We also found attractive little white goats that scampered away up the hill every one save for one youngster left behind, which then tried to adopt us in its mother's stead. And as the result of our afternoon spear fishing forays we dined on grouper the subsequent few evenings.

The place seemed the epitome of tropical utopia, however the villagers had related that a few years previously a lone yachtsman sojourning here had drowned when his craft sank during a cyclone.

A few days later we pulled anchor and motored out of the pass, with the skipper perched aloft in the spreaders as pilot while the mate responded to his arm gestures that warned of the random coral heads. Once clear, we enjoyed a pleasant sail back to Suva.

Return to Suva

Hailing a taxi into town, we commenced scurrying here and there, preparing for our Fijian departure. We received our Australian visas at the consulate. We collected a newly purchased, duty free piano-keyboard. At the market Jenny bought a few bags of fresh vegetables, then we enjoyed a fish and chips lunch, our favorite 50-cents Suva special. The following day we motored the dinghy to the yacht club dinghy wharf and back to Suka many times, lightering water in all manner of buckets and jugs.

More than two weeks ago, our French friends Yves and Louisette aboard their yacht Dy Chior had departed Tonga, bound for Suva. But sadly, they had not been seen since. Their disappearance was the main topic among we yachtees, and we had all but given them up as possibly lost at sea. The alert was out via the ham operators, and the officials in Fiji and Noumea were supposedly searching for them. Gravely concerned about Dy Chior, we breathed a collective sigh of relief when the familiar blue-hulled ketch motored into the harbor. It seems that Yves and Louisette had spent two weeks anchored pleasurably at Totoya Island, while disregarding pratique.

The cruising season was fast approaching its untimely end, and the necessity was fast upon us to leave the South Pacific's cyclone belt. How disappointing it felt to be in some of the world's most fertile cruising grounds, with islands everywhere beckoning come explore, but to have to pull stakes. Most of our cruising friends would not be sailing beyond the South Pacific, but would soon lay a course for New Zealand, with plans to eventually return to the states via the long windward slog or by sending the yacht home aboard container ships. Originally, Jenny and I had planned on visiting New Zealand also, but now we felt the urge to generally come to grips with the circumnavigation. So sailing for Australia seemed the more expedient course of action. Bound for the Indian Ocean and points beyond, we were reluctantly parting company with the majority of our cruising friends, who were plying the standard "coconut-milk run."

Paperwork and errands finished, we attended the yacht club's traditional Sunday night barbecue. This time it featured a song and dance troupe from one of the atolls of the Gilbert Islands. The star of the show was a small boy, perhaps 10 years of age, who twirled and tossed his machete as though it were a mere baton, this to the accompaniment of the adults who sang and chanted to the beat, pummeled on makeshift drums.

September 19: We weighed and motored to King's Wharf, from where Jenny scurried into town for one final shopping spree, in order to expend what remained of her Fijian currency. Then when the customs had granted us an out-bound clearance paper, we stowed the mooring lines, hoisted the canvas, and sailed out of the harbor.