Fiji
Nestled deep in the highlands of Fiji’s main island, Viti Levu, is the village of Nubuyanitu. The village is accessible only via a truck ride along the singular dusty, bumpy road that runs through the rolling hills and traverses rivers. Do not expect to leave the village after it rains (which happens almost daily during the rainy season), as the rivers are too high for traffic.
With three hundred residents, this village is large for Fiji. Members of a clan, typically extended family members, live in the same part of the village and often enjoy meals and spare time together. When I first entered the home, there were fifteen people on the floor watching rugby on satellite television. It was difficult to tell who truly lives there. Though homes often have chairs, they are seldom used. Hand-woven from coconut husks, mats on the floor are the more common seating choice. When someone walks past those seated on the floor, they crouch and say, “Chilo,” a sign of respect. I entered through the back kitchen door — only men are permitted to use the front door.
Children are given a great deal of freedom from a young age. Toddlers swim in the rivers, and six-year-olds ride horses bareback, machetes in hand. They attend a school just outside the village bounds, though some drop out of school at as young as twelve years old.
The women are the first to wake and the last to sleep. At the crow of the roosters each dawn (for which my ear plugs came in handy), they make breakfast and conduct household tasks. The moment breakfast is finished, preparations for lunch begin. Fijian food consists of traditional dishes such as dahl, roti (similar to naan) and curries, but goods like peanut butter and cookies are sought-after luxuries. The Airhead candies I brought were particularly popular. The women add food dye to baked goods to increase their appeal to children; I had never seen such a pink bread roll. Despite the scorching heat, the villages enjoy soups, hot cocoa, and lemon leaf tea made from leaves picked just outside their doorways. They love sugar and add eight or nine spoonfuls to a single bowl of tea.
Even during its rainy season, the village is unbearably hot. Despite my initial hesitancy, I learned that the best way to cool off is a dip in the river that flows just outside the village bounds. Children splash around and jump off rocks on the bank, women do laundry, men polish their machetes, adolescents catch fish for dinner, and horses take a swim to cleanse. The river is lined with bags of Bongos, Fijian children’s snack of choice. When it rains, the river clouds with uprooted sediment, rendering any activity difficult. Villagers stay inside. I was warned that my wet hair would summon evil spirits and make me sick.
The primary religion is Christianity, brought by European colonizers in the 1880s. The start of church, on Saturday for Seventh Day Adventists and Sunday for Methodists, is marked by a bong of the gong, which can be heard around the village. At church, children sing familiar Christian songs in both Fijian and English, such as “Go Tell It on the Mountain,” and adults sing hymns translated into Fijian.
After numerous deaths in the village, the village leaders believed that some people were possessed by evil spirits. A group of exorcists came to cast away these spirits. The first days of their visit consisted of spirited dances and singing for entertainment, but over the course of their stay, events grew more serious. There were religious services, and objects believed to be possessed were burnt. Old tapestries and photographs were some of the items burnt. As I was eating lunch in another home, a priest came by to rub oil on the doorways and discuss scripture with the man of that house.
Despite these distinct aspects of Fijian culture and tradition, the village is not as culturally isolated as I had expected. Children wear LeBron James jerseys, and villagers often have satellite television. In fact, I first heard about the imposing threat of coronavirus from a Fijian news channel.
Although there were times I felt culture shock or discomfort, I embraced such feelings as signs of my journey’s success, as this sort of experience was my goal. By mid-trip, I had largely grown accustomed to the Fijian lifestyle, eagerly awaiting my pre-dinner river shower or evening lemon leaf tea, but I still yearned for home comforts. Though the thought of my remaining weeks in the village at times proved daunting, I chose to instead take it one pink roti, one melodic church service at a time.
Though I did not return home feeling changed to my core, each person is shaped by his or her experiences. I may not have grand, life-altering lessons, but instead an infinite series of moments: the traditional dress gifted to me by the village seamstress, the joy in childrens’ voices as they sang hymns at church, the reminders from one villager Buks to “be happy, no homesick, no sad.” If you asked me what Fiji is like, I would struggle to find one sentence that encapsulates the experience, but I would argue that moments like these speak volumes more to a country, a village, a culture, than any summary ever could.