Issue link: https://bluemagazine.uberflip.com/i/25170
" of 10, highlanders begin undertaking this old trade route--once the primary access to the coast. Until recently, they had to walk back home. Now travelers return by whatever vehicle is going their way. The trip was routine for my friends until we encountered a massive palm tree that had fallen across the canyon creating an impassable dam. Many miles from a road, the obstacle didn't phase the two captains. They just exchanged a glance that I read as, "Jeez, this one's a doozy." Their emergency portage solution would impress a knife juggler. The men separated to opposite banks, one took a machete swipe at the base of a 40- foot rubber tree, the high end falling next to the guy on the opposing bank. Upriver, holding the rafts close to a vine, I watched them share the machete to cut long strips of bark by casually hucking the big glinting blade back and forth across the raging, 30-foot-wide river like playground pals tossing a tennis ball to each other. They systematically cut enough peels of bark to bind into one long piece of twine, used to guide the rafts over the tree. I knew if their mojo held, we'd prevail. The river continued swinging through the rock and the ages, through sweet air, droopy green gardens and waterfall drizzles. Sunlight shimmered through mist and lianas. The meander through the gorge walls diminished into flat open water and plains of palms. No question here about what to do with in-between moments. Words fail. We pulled out at the Waiqa's confluence with the unhurried Monasavu River. True freedom, far from the planet's growing array of widening roads. Back in the hut a few men had nodded off. (Several of the doorways I peered into during my trip revealed groups of men drinking grog seemingly all day and all night. The only common side-effect of long-term grogging appears to be dry skin.) They were roused and we sat on a table-long cloth on the floor to eat the creamed-spinach-like roro, finely grated taro leaves that are twice-boiled in coconut milk, along with roasted mutton and lemon tea, which is made from boiled lemon leaves. We ate with our hands, dipping our glistening digits into finger "AT FIRST, THE IDEA OF RUNNING RAPIDS ON 25-FOOT BAMBOO TRUNKS LASHED TOGETHER WITH TWINE SEEMED AS LOGICAL AS BOWLING WITH AN EGGPLANT." bowls. Women fan the flies while the men eat, then dine second, seemingly eating twice as much as the men. Bilibilis and Machete Jugglers I've run risky rivers in a mix of wooden, rubber, steel and plastic inventions, but none produced more hyperventilation than negotiating the Waiqa River after a fat rain on a bamboo bili bili raft. At first, the idea of running rapids on 25-foot bamboo trunks lashed together with twine seemed as logical as bowling with an eggplant. The two gondoliers were Waiqa River Band mates. Elected second in command of one raft, I stepped onto the back end, the senior pilot manning the front. At first I wasn't sure what to do with the ten-foot bamboo pole in my hand. Balancing precariously on something better suited for a log-rolling contest, he jockeyed this needle through a narrow aqua chasm with a bag of navigating tricks you can't learn in a gym. This energy is not identified with civilization but with the flight from it. Imagine balancing on a long floating ski- we surfed those tippy bamboo toboggans through a whitewater maze flanked by unforgiving vertical canyon walls. The nearly interlocking walls of the gorge were storm-born architecture filled with a misty, wavy spray. On another boat, Severo and his musician/guide also rode their bilibili down what began as a wide, winding river. Then the river suddenly entered a narrow gorge where parallel rock walls pinched it into a rampaging froth. The sun stood noon-high above the walls which were covered, every now and then, by canopy. We glided onwards, gaining speed. My pole was only bothering fish, but up front the extreme gondolier pilot rnaneuvered skillfully to keep rny pack and camera upright. They sat tied to the back of a little barnboo throne secured by twine to the center of the raft. Like running the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon, there is no turning back. But while rubber rafts bounce off rock walls, bamboo splinters. My companions' bewildering level of athleticism included using the guide poles to prevent coll isions with suddenly appearing rocks and bending canyon walls. They slashed overhead obstacles, such as low-hanging lianas, with a machete, and faced each other in rnid-rapid to casually clarify navigation. In times of peril, the lead rnen dived from the rafts (leaving me solo and rudderless), swam to shore and sprinted barefoot along the riverbank over fallen trees and mossy boulders to dive in front of the boat and swim-kick-sway it away from unforgiving obstacles protruding just ahead . It takes one man two days to build a bilibi li, which is strictly a one-way craft, to be left downriver for anyone heading seaward or needing wood for construction or fire. At the age 34 Fresh Fruit I made camp on the coast for a few days. During a long trek the sun was setting when I encountered a man in his sixties in the rniddle of the path, clutching a machete. He turned out to be Eroni Tabua, a taro farmer and eldest son of a chief of the nearby village. At first I thought he glanced at me in a conspiratorial way- asking if I needed anything from the market back in town. Realizing that I never asked the chief's permission to enter the village, I guardedly reasoned that I didn't need any supplies even though I was famished. Eroni then asked if I'd like to have lunch. I explained that to make it back to camp by dusk I needed to move on. He insisted that I take a five-rninute detour from the trail. I followed him into the thicket, slightly paranoid. Eroni stopped in a grove of fruit trees, shook a few trunks and bushes, catching falling objects with one hand. He tossed each fruit into the air a few times, whacking it rapidly with knife in midair, caught the slices and handed them to me. Instant fresh coconut and papaya variety plate. His family owned the plantation upon which we stood. There in the heart of it, Eroni's soft-spoken voice carried the kindness as a torch for the world, as pleasant and intelligent as any thoughtful professor of the humanities. I opened my Fijian phrase book to find another word for thanks. Instead, the farmer took the book, opened it and randornly found a word, pikiniki ... picnicl Having such a character machete-hack a fruit salad while you discuss taro farming, makes you reevaluate the meaning of concepts such as peace. Eroni then contemplated my inevitable return to Fiji and said, "Next time, come to my vi lIage stra ightaway. " In October 1991, Fiji became perhaps the last English-speaking nation to receive television. Enthusiasm, concern, and teeth gnashing surrounded private investors' efforts to introduce broadcast television to the islands. One wonders about the Nielsen rating when the price of a TV roughly equals the average annual income. But the two stations shall multiply, exponentially, towing in a boatload of anorexia-inspiring ads, Afro Sheen and processed versions of food that already grows in the backyard. The popular outer islands and mainland tourist centers show signs of tourist-treadmill wear-is a Hooter's around the corner? Before flying away from these Pacific islands, I rnerged with one more kava assembly at the airport. Seated in a corner of the departure lounge, a throng of well-wishers bade farewell to a departing friend. Detouring from tradition, the hooch was ladled from a large blue plastic bucket. Before getting on the plane I turned around to glance at the kava-bucketeers for one more liberal allowance of smiles. Will Fij i keep the ways of the chiefs? Is there a population race between the Fijians and the I ndians to control government? Will the downtown pickpockets snag everything? Not yet. For now, while Fiji 's past and future spar, the smiles reign. Fiji's polestar is still a beautiful one, shining on a breezy island chain where the future is left to fortuity. It just may be the cradle of the world's delight. o z UJ u '" r ~ 51 Q. « r Ii' •