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As cool dusk set in, the rite commenced with Severo making a prayerlike presentation to the chief explaining my presence in Navai, and handing over the customary gift of kava. Then came the men-only drinking session-a chief's council bread breaking. Vil lagers sat cross-legged, shoes off. The cocktail, also called grog, was ladled into a bilo, half a coconut shell, and systematically distributed around the semicircle of six men. The seating arrangement is determined by tribal seniority (the unofficial drinking age is around 16), with everyone imbibing in an unspoken pecking order. The guest, me, sat before the kava mixologist, who was centered behind the bowl. The elderly chief sat to my left. The group ceremoniously clapped once, loudly, with hands cupped, to summon the first person's six-ounce gulp, then acknowledged the quaff by clapping again three times. I took a swig and found the grog tasted faintly bitter, like muddy river water. It slowly numbed my lips and tongue, then everything else, eventually imparting a euphoric grin. Think: earthy codeine smoothie. My low-key hosts switched between English and Fij ian, which reminded me of serene Italian. They remained calm even when discussing a heated, holy subject like rugby. Each of us consumed a six-ounce bowl every ten minutes- happy hour lasted four hours. Sevu sevu was originally a ceremony to settle differences between warring chiefs; the kava got enemies past their anger and in a relaxed "IT SLOWLY NUMBED MY LIPS AND TONGUE, THEN EVERYTHING ELSE, EVENTUALLY IMPARTING A EUPHORIC GRIN. THINK: EARTHY CODEINE mood to discuss the situation. Now it is an archetypal story time, certainly more interactive than barking at Monday Night Football. The gathering was a combination of telephone, television, newspaper and gossip column. It was time to talk. SMOOTHIE." "You live in New York City?" the chief inquired. "I do." "Many people," he nodded. "Too many," I agreed, then confessed that I often encounter a thousand people in a day, speaking to no one but myself. I think that's when they prayed for me. During a pee break, I reveled in the cool fog and full moon rising while two grinning children hid behind a tree, encouraging a game of hide-and-seek. To the south an isolated storm cloud steamed over a mountain, a communion of gray and white flaring the high jungle sky with lightning and trailing drapes of rain. Kava tala-kava again. I experience a moment of travel-writing schizophrenia: Do I really want to report on Fiji and expose this place further to the world? The kava session waxed pensive, contemplative, then sleepy. Some women and children came and sat on the perimeter of the circle, beaming. They didn't drink kava . One of the women asked me to dance and my smile became transfixed. After a sound sleep I awoke on the mat-covered floor, without a hint of a hangover, to the smell of lemon tea brewing. Contentedness: What all the ages have struggled for. God's Plan The missionary mission lingers. In 1825, the London Missionary Society sent envoys to establish Christianity on Fiji's 100 inhabited islands. They were successful. Since then Methodist, Seventh Day Adventist and Catholic missionaries were especially busy here, building churches in nearly every settlement, motivating the stirring Fijian knack for a capella harmonies. For visitors who have sidestepped organized religion, the magnificent gospel singing alone is a reason to visit the omnipresent churches. I sat in many of Fiji 's churches- visiting each of the five denominations-listening to soulful , gospel-like choirs. With no musical instruments, these men and women lift untrained voices in glorious three-part harmony, praising the heavens with a beauty few European cathedral choirs match. The beauty comes from the diaphragm and from the heart. A gospel serenade lured me into Navai's Adventist Church, an agreeable, muggy, Kiwanis-style lodge that could've been in Homestead, Florida, flanked on all sides by jalousies (long, Venetian-blind-like glass windows). After the children stopped sneaking peeks at me, they reset their attention on the preacher, behind whom there was a message on the blackboard: "God has a plan for you. " Below that, the menu for the day's post-service snacks: "Banana Cake," "Stone Buns." 33 Lifestyles Can Be Prepackaged Today- But Not Here I couldn't hover indefinitely above the clouds. The easiest transport option to sea level was by river plunge. Leaving Navai, I ricocheted across Viti Levu's high-altitude backbone in a paint-shaking pickup to the village of Naitauvoli. En route, wild horses and pigs moseyed about the wet, dark-green cloud forest of billowing bamboo clumps and willowlike ra in trees in the rugged mountains. Sitiveni, the Fijian cowboy driver, used his wide-splayed bare feet on the pedals, as he navigated the savage Monasavu Dam road-I use the term "road" loosely. As we drove, hooting and banging down cliff-edged hairpin turns, I asked, "Ever had a wheel fall off? Trucks ever tumble off cliffs?" After a skidding pivot Sitiveni smiled "yes" twice, leaving big space for imagination. That night, I found myself at another kava ceremony. I was now on a cupped-hand-clapping kava binge. Several members of the Waiqa (pronounced wine- gah) River Band, who periodically float to the lowlands to play local music festivals, had joined the circ le. Their voices enhanced the reflective traditional chant that opened the sevu sevu. No discussions about cloning or euthanasia, but plenty of banter about rain, fruit and family. The people pause before answering questions. Occasionally, the thoughtful pauses were checked by youngsters naughtily peering in. The children have a don't-speak-unless-spoken-to respect for elders. Experiencing collective pride, respect, politeness and esteem for elders-in what would be considered a clapboard shanty by the US evening news-would be a valuable lesson for fractured famil ies living on Park Avenue. After two hours of calm communication, everyone slowly focused on me expectantly. I felt a little uncomfortable with the silence. "Is it okay that I'm here?" I asked. A senior slowly assured me, "You are no stranger here Bruce." Outside the hut, I stared at the moon lingering next to a pine tree. I introduced myself to an elderly woman sitting on the floor of her home, weaving large floor mats from dried pandanus leaves. I sat down to pet her dog for a few minutes. I lay down on the ground, and the dog and I bonded famously. I asked the animal's name. The woman didn't look up from her weaving as she said, "Brown." I continued wrestling with the dog. Twenty minutes later, still not peering up from her craft, she mused above the silent calm, "Bruce and Brown." Floored on a floor mat.