LEVUKA—THE HARBOUR—CORAL-REEF—CHURCHES—ANIMAL LIFE—PLANTS—HOW
TO BREW YANGONA—PICNICS—SPEAR-THROWING.
WITH MRS HAVELOCK, LEVUKA, _Saturday, October 2, 1875_.
DEAR NELL,—I cannot say how I long to have you here to share the delight
of sitting on this high headland overlooking the lovely sea. The air is
balmy, and we almost always have a faint delicious breeze (sometimes
it is anything but faint!) From this tiny garden we look down through
a veil of glittering palm-leaves, brightened by a foreground of rosy
oleanders, and vivid scarlet hybiscus; and between these glimmer the
blue waters of the Pacific, and dreamy isles which seem to float on the
horizon. I think, on a clear day, we can count eight or ten of these.
Just below us lies the harbour, like a calm sea-lake, on which ride
vessels of all sizes: trading schooners and brigs, which carry the
produce of the isles to Australia and New Zealand. Larger vessels trade
with Germany. Then there is an occasional man-of-war or merchant steamer,
and always native canoes passing to and fro, with great three-cornered
yellow mat sails, and brown men, who often sing quaint _mékés_ as they
approach the town, with an odd sort of accompaniment on their _lali_,
or wooden drum. The chiefs’ canoes carry a flag, and sometimes a fringe
of streamers of native cloth floating from the sail; and the canoe
itself is adorned at both ends with glistening white shells like poached
eggs (_Cyprea oviformis_). Sometimes several canoes pass us racing, or
they meet, and their sails at different angles form pretty groups. How
striking a scene it must have been, when, in the old days, the chiefs
sailed forth to war at the head of a large fleet of these! On one such
occasion, when Thakombau went to attack Verata, he mustered a hundred
and twenty-nine canoes. Only think how bravely they must have flown
before the breeze, with the golden sunlight on the yellow sails! These
canoes are balanced by large outriggers—that is, a beam of wood, or piece
of cocoa-palm stem, floating alongside, and attached to the canoe by
bamboos. They are most picturesque, and the great mat sails, seen against
the intense blue of the water, are a valuable addition to the scene.
Indeed the eye that loves exquisite colour can never weary here.
The rich blue of the harbour is separated from the purplish indigo of
the great ocean by a submarine rainbow of indescribable loveliness. This
is caused by the coral-reef, which produces a gleaming ray as if from
a hidden prism. The patches of coral, sea-weed, and sometimes white
sand, lying at irregular depths, beneath a shallow covering of the most
crystalline emerald-green water, produce every shade of aqua marine,
mauve, sienna, and orange, all marvellously blended. The shades are
continually varying with the ebb and flow of the tide, which at high
water covers the reef to the depth of several feet, while at low tide
patches here and there stand high and dry, or are covered by only a few
inches of water; treacherous ground, however, on which to land, as the
sharp coral spikes break under the feet, cutting the thickest leather,
and perhaps landing you in a hole several feet in depth, with still
sharper coral down below. The highest edge of the reef lies towards the
ocean, and a line of dazzling white surf marks where the great green
breakers wage their ceaseless warfare on the barrier; but the passage
through the reef is plainly marked by a break in the white line, and a
broad roadway of deep blue connecting the inner waters with the great
deep; and this, again, passes in gradual gradations of colour, from the
intense blue of the harbour to the glittering green of the shallow water
on the inner side of the reef. Altogether it is most fascinating. The
scene is loveliest at noon, when the sun is right overhead, and lights up
the colours beneath the water on the coral caves. Also you must be some
way up the hill to get a good view of the reef. Of the radiant opal tints
which overspread sea, isles, and sky, at the outgoings of morning and
evening, I need not tell you; our own northern shores supply sunrise and
sunset colours more vivid than we often see in the tropics.
This afternoon has been one of unmitigated enjoyment spent on the
reef, where for so many days I have enviously watched the Fijian girls
disporting themselves at low tide, and bringing back baskets full of all
sort of curious fish, many of them literally rainbow-coloured. Some are
most gorgeous, and are called parrot-fish. They have large bony beaks,
rather than ordinary mouths, to enable them to feed on the coral, which
at certain seasons are said to be “in flower,” and very unwholesome; so
we always eat these radiant fish with some qualms, and not without good
reason, for some people have had the ill-luck to get poisoned, and have
suffered severely in consequence.
Our great authority on all questions of natural history is Mr Layard
(brother of Nineveh Layard), who, before annexation, held the office of
British Consul in this place. He and his son have a special talent for
capturing strange monsters of the deep, and I never call on Mrs Layard
without her showing me some new object of interest. They live in a large
old wooden house, built on the very edge of the water; in fact, the sea
washes up underneath the verandah, which opens on to a long wooden pier
in the last stages of decay. I should think the position most unsafe,
in view of possible tidal waves, especially as a small mountain stream
(which occasionally becomes a torrent) washes one side of the house,—so
that from one window the inmates can have fresh-water fishing, and from
the other salt. That old pier has been a source of infinite pleasure to
many. It enables Mrs Layard to have a little fresh air, and a small
walk, without venturing among the broken bottles and mud which form the
beach; and her husband and son thence capture many strange creatures
when they have not time to row off to the reef, which is, of course, the
very ideal of a naturalist’s happy hunting-grounds, and there they took
me this afternoon. You really cannot imagine anything more lovely than
it was. The first essential is to go in a boat which draws very little
water, and which has no new paint to be considered. Then when the tide is
low, and the sea without a ripple, you float idly over the coral-beds,
suffering your boat to lie at rest or drift with the current, as a stroke
of the oars would disturb the clear surface of the water, beneath which
lie such inexhaustible stores of loveliness. Every sort and kind of coral
grow together there, from the outstretched branches, which look like
garden shrubs, to the great tables of solid coral, on which lie strewn
shells and sponges, and heaps of brain and mushroom corals.
These living shrubs assume every shade of colour: some are delicate pink
or blue; others of a brilliant mauve; some pale primrose. But vain is the
attempt to carry home these beautiful flowers of the sea; their colour is
their life. It is, in fact, simply a gelatinous slime, which drips away,
as the living creatures melt away and die, when exposed to the upper
air. So the corals we know in England are merely skeletons, and very
poor substitutes for the lovely objects we see and covet in their native
condition.
Besides, like everything in that submarine garden, much of its charm is
derived from the medium through which we behold it—the clear translucent
water, which spreads a glamour of enchantment over objects already
beautiful, glorifying the scarlet corallines and the waving branches of
green and brown weed, wherein play exquisite fish of all vivid hues and
sizes, from the tiniest gem-like atoms which flash in the light like
sapphires and rubies, to the great big-headed parrot-fish, which has
strong white teeth specially adapted for crunching the coral, and thence
extracting the insects on which he feeds.
There are great red fish, and purple-green fish, and some of bright gold,
with bars or spots of black; but loveliest of all are the shoals of
minute fish, some of the most vivid green, others of a blue that is quite
dazzling. Some have markings so brilliant that I can only compare them to
peacocks’ feathers. These all congregate in families, and a happy life
they surely must have. Some of the loveliest of these are so tiny that
you can keep a dozen in a tumbler; others are about the length of your
finger. Only think what a prize they would be if we could convey them
safely to the great aquariums of Britain! Besides these myriads of minute
fish, there are all manner of living creatures which peep out from their
homes beneath the ledges and crevices of the coral,—vigilant crabs of all
sizes and colours, and sea-anemones in endless variety, and wonderful
specimens of Echini.
Picture to yourself first cousins of the fragile sea-eggs which used
to rejoice our childhood, and make us marvel how they ever came
ashore unbroken. These Fijian relations are armed with spikes like
slate-pencils, nearly as thick as your middle finger, and a good deal
longer. I think Mr Layard said their name is Acrocladia. To-day we
captured a most extraordinary creature, a star-fish, which seemed as if
it must be nearly related to the sea-urchin, for its fifteen arms were
each covered with grey and orange spines, very sharp, precisely like
those of the echinus, while the under side was a mass of pale-yellow
fleshy feelers, like those of a sea-anemone, with a sucker at the end of
each. It was a strange and most interesting creature when we first beheld
it, but looked very unhappy when it found itself in a bucket; and when
reduced to “a specimen,” it will be a poor ugly object.[7]
We saw a great number of large star-fish, of the deepest Albert blue, and
innumerable other beautiful things, which gained greatly in interest from
being shown to me by one so familiar with them all as is Mr Layard. How
you would delight in such an afternoon as this has been, and how the boys
would revel in it! It is not altogether pleasant, however, to try walking
on the reef, and you generally have to get natives to dive for anything
particularly good. They never seem afraid of the many sharp teeth and
stinging creatures which may dart out from the coral; and not being
troubled by over-much raiment, they dive in and out like fishes (though,
as a general rule, they do dislike wetting their hair). To them the reef
is a source of endless amusement and profit, and at low tide there are
generally some canoes lying in the shallow water; while the girls and
young men are hunting for the spoils of the sea, which they carry in
three-cornered baskets, slung from the waist. Of course they do not care
to spoil their simple raiment with salt water, so a considerable portion
of their dress on these occasions consists of deep fringes and garlands
of many-coloured leaves, which are a most becoming drapery, with their
rich brown skin and tawny head.
The existence of these barrier-reefs is an unspeakable benefit to the
isles, supplying them with natural breakwaters and harbours, surrounding
each with a lagoon of calm, shallow water, on which the smallest boats
can ply as safely as on an inland lake, and within shelter of which they
can, in most places, pass from one isle to another. There is invariably
a passage through the reef opposite the mouth of any river, as the
coral insect cannot live within the influence of fresh water. Thus an
entrance is secured to the haven of rest, and a very strait and narrow
way it often is, and one which calls for careful steering, when the angry
breakers are dashing in mad fury on the reef on either side—great rolling
waves curling upward in a succession of mighty walls of green water, and
falling in such a surging cataract of foam as would make short work of
the luckless canoe that should drift within their reach. Once inside the
reef all is secure, save when some unusual storm troubles even these calm
waters, as it might ruffle the surface of any lake.
It is hard to realise that these mighty sea-walls are indeed the work
of microscopic insects,—star-like creatures, invisible to the naked
eye; but so it is. It is said they cannot live at a greater depth than
thirty fathoms, yet the height of the coral-wall is in many cases double
or treble this measurement, and in some cases a sheer descent of two
hundred fathoms has been found. The inference is, that many of these
isles, as well as the ocean-bed from which the coral rises, are gradually
subsiding, and the insects are continually working upwards. In some cases
the island has altogether disappeared, and there remains only a circular
or crescent shaped reef, perhaps fringed with cocoa-palms, encircling
a calm lagoon of clear green water, the sea all round being of the
deepest blue. These are called _atolls_, and are sometimes many miles in
circumference. Some scarcely rise above the water-level, and only a ring
of white coral sand betrays their existence.
The coral-reef gives us various hints of the rise and fall in the level
of the ocean-bed, for while some islands have wholly disappeared, others
are even now emerging from the waters. In some groups coral-cliffs have
been found forty feet above the water-level—in other words, above the
height where the insect could live, thus showing clearly that these rocks
have been gradually upheaved. But in the Fijian group there are few
islands which are not almost encircled by a barrier-reef of considerable
depth, which would seem to indicate that they are actually subsiding.
However, the process is likely to be a slow one, and a matter of no great
moment to the present generation, or their successors for many years to
come.
I have spun a longer yarn than I intended, but it will help you to
realise the sort of things that I am daily looking at, and will make the
boys wish they were with me.
* * * * *
_Monday, 4th October._
DEAR JEAN,— ... I have just come in from such a scramble. Certainly
those hills of Ovalau are most tantalising. From the sea they do look
so attractive, and not particularly difficult to ascend; but when it
comes to the attempt, you find that even in the rare instances where
the semblance of a footpath exists, it takes a very good scrambler to
follow it, over great boulders of rock, or up almost perpendicular banks
of soapy mud. Should you attempt to leave the path, you find it almost
impossible to force a passage through the dense underwood; and even the
tracks, which from the sea look like grass, turn out to be tall reeds,
reaching far above your head, and matted together with strong vines
(which totally prevent your advance), and large spiders’ webs, which
cling to your face and hair. Still, it is worth a considerable exertion,
for the reward of at length reaching some point whence you can look down
on the lovely sea and all the far-away isles.
This island is itself quite beautiful, though by no means a desirable one
on which to establish a capital, as it consists entirely of very steep
hills, rising to a height of about 3000 feet, crowned with great crags,
and rent by deep gorges densely wooded. The only available building land
is a narrow strip on the edge of the sea; and though, of course, the
lower spurs of the hills may gradually be dotted with villas, there is no
possibility of extending the town unless by expensive terracing—a game
which would certainly not be worth the candle, as saith the proverb.
I must say the little town greatly exceeds our expectations. We had
imagined it was still the haunt of uproarious planters and white men
of the lowest type, described by visitors a few years ago, instead of
which we find a most orderly and respectable community, of about 600
whites, inhabiting 180 wooden houses. We are told that the reformation
in the sobriety of the town is partly due to the Good Templars, who
here muster a very considerable brotherhood. Doubtless their work is
greatly facilitated by the increased price of gin, which in former days
flowed like water, at the modest price of one shilling a bottle, but has
now risen to five times that sum. It used to be said that ships needed
no chart to bring them to Fiji, for they would find the way marked by
floating gin-bottles, increasing in numbers as they approached the group.
Those were the days when men meeting at noonday to discuss grave matters
of business found their deliberations assisted by a jug of raw gin, to
be drunk in tumblers as other men would drink water! Certainly if the
multitude of broken bottles which strew the beach were any evidence of
the amount of liquor consumed, we might imagine that the old drinking
days were not yet wholly forgotten.
The principal shops (or stores, as they are called) lie along the beach,
and, without much outward show, are fully stocked with all things
needful, which a European can buy at about one-third more than he would
pay in England. But by a singular phase of commercial morality, a native
wishing to purchase the same article is invariably made to pay a very
much higher price, and this is done quite openly, as a generally accepted
condition of trade! There are several respectable boarding-houses, and
two or three hotels, where the planters find quarters when they come to
this great metropolis.
I am rather afraid you will not have a very dignified idea of our
capital, when I confess that our great main street has only houses on one
side, and the street itself is only a strip of rocky, muddy, or shingly
sea-beach. Various attempts have been made to build up a low sea-wall,
but this is invariably washed away by the next high tide. How the houses
escape is a mystery.
One thing that would strike you as peculiar would be to see a whole town
without one chimney. There is a house which apparently has a couple,
but these are only ventilators. You would also be impressed by our
magnificent lighthouses—two wooden pyramids, which, seen at a certain
angle to one another, mark the passage through the coral-reef. These are,
I think, the only representatives of lighthouses in this most dangerous
group. But at present the colony is too poor to build any, and Mother
England is too stingy to allow us any.
But whatever else is lacking, churches flourish. Besides the Wesleyan
native chapels, there are a large Wesleyan church for the white
population, a Roman Catholic church, and an Episcopal one. We, of course,
belong to the latter; but at present our parson, Mr Floyd, is in New
Zealand, so all the Governor’s staff take it by turns to officiate, two
in the morning and two in the evening. They appear in surplices, and
take their part well. Last Sunday morning Mr Le Hunte read prayers,
and Captain Havelock one of Robertson’s sermons. Yesterday morning
Captain Havelock read prayers, and Mr Maudslay preached a Kingsley. In
the evening Mr Eyre read, and Mr Le Hunte preached; but I forget his
subject, for such a tremendous storm of rain came down on the zinc roof
that even his voice was drowned. After services we waited in vain for
half an hour, and then waded home, fully a mile. Nurse and Mrs Abbey very
sensibly left their dresses and bonnets in church!
Mr Floyd has one of Bishop Patteson’s native clergy to assist him in a
mission to the foreign labour, the Church of England most wisely judging
it best to leave the Fijians wholly in the care of the Wesleyans, whose
mission here has been so marvellously successful. But the foreign labour
does seem almost a hopeless field. They are brought here from a multitude
of isles, all talking different languages, and only remain three years in
the group, so that the very small numbers that can be reached, even of
those who find situations in Levuka, can scarcely be expected to learn
much before they have to be sent back to their own isles as “time-expired
labour.” Still, the little church does fill in the afternoons with a
strangely motley congregation, and doubtless some seeds of good are
carried back to the distant isles, which may bear fruit in due season.[8]
There is yet another congregation which I have forgotten to
mention—namely, our fellow-passengers, the company of Royal Engineers,
who, finding the little English church already crowded, hold service by
themselves in a thatched shed on the shore, open all round to admit the
sweet sea-breeze, and overshadowed by large dark trees. It makes a very
cool chapel, and we often linger as we pass to listen to the pleasant
English voices and hearty singing.
As I mentioned to you before, no preparation had been made to receive the
Engineers on their arrival here, so they had to find temporary quarters
for themselves till they could decide where to place their barracks,
and then build them. It was no easy matter to find healthy quarters for
so large a body of men in such a place, and Colonel Pratt was at first
somewhat perplexed. By great good fortune a large empty storehouse was
found half-way between Nasova and the town, so there they are housed for
the present, and make the best of very uncomfortable quarters. They do
look so hot, poor fellows, going about in uniform, with small caps, under
just such a sun as that which makes men in India wear solah _topees_ and
carry white umbrellas. Here (where the inhabitants take their ideas from
Australia or New Zealand) such precautions are considered as unnecessary,
as are all the luxuries which others, coming from India or kindred
lands, would deem necessaries. The Engineers, however, have sun-helmets
somewhere, but they are supposed to have gone on a little voyage by
themselves to Melbourne, and are expected to arrive in the course of a
few months! Colonel Pratt had considerable difficulty in getting either
cool clothes or mosquito-nets for his men. The authorities could not
understand why he should require them; and when he suggested that it was
usual to supply such articles to troops on tropical service, the reply he
received was—“Why, you don’t mean to say that Fiji is in the tropics?”
That it is so we are all very well aware, but I think this is the best
tropical climate any of us have yet found; there are few days when we
have not a balmy breeze and soft grey clouds, and even the midsummer
heat of December rarely shows a thermometer above 90°. I cannot find out
that there is any especially rainy season, or any which is exempt from
rain. Heavy thunderstorms are frequent at present, and I am told that
about Christmas there is often much rain and an occasional hurricane. The
latter, however, only happens once in several years; so you need not be
in any special alarm for the safety of your dearly beloved sister,
C. F. G. C.
* * * * *
In one respect we are greatly disappointed in this place—_there are
scarcely any flowers_. This strikes us all the more, as we have come here
direct from Australia, where we left the whole country literally aflame
with blossom. You cannot fancy anything more lovely. And here in the
tropics, where people always vainly imagine that flowers are so abundant,
we have fewer than in any place I have yet been to. Scarcely any house
has even a flower-bed round the windows; and the very best garden in
the place would, except for the beauty of its crotons and other shrubs,
scarcely be dignified with the name in England; and yet infinite care is
expended on it, and a handful of roses or other blossoms of any sort is
the greatest boon its owner can bestow on us. As to wild flowers, I have
walked day after day till I was weary, without finding as many flowers as
would fill a small vase.
The ferns, however, are exceedingly lovely. Innumerable species grow in
richest profusion in every damp ravine, and great tufts of birds’-nest
and other ferns cling to the mossy boughs of the grey old trees. Every
here and there you come on a rocky stream or shady pool round which
they cluster in such luxuriance and variety, that it makes you long
to transport the whole fairy-like dell to some place where all fern
lovers might revel in its beauty. And this is only the undergrowth;
for the cool shade overhead is produced by the interwoven fronds of
great tree-ferns—their exquisite crown of green supported by a slender
stem from twenty to thirty feet high, up which twine delicate creepers
of all sorts, which steal in and out among the great fronds, and so
weave a canopy of exquisite beauty. Loveliest of all are the delicate
climbing-ferns, the tender leaves of which—some richly _fringed_
with seed—hang mid-air on long hair-like trails, or else, drooping
in festoons, climb from tree to tree, forming a perfect network of
loveliness. It is a most fairy-like foliage, and the people show their
reverence for its beauty by calling it the _Wa Kolo_, or God’s fern.
I ought to mention that though there are no flowers within reach, there
are several flowering trees with unattainable, and, happily, not very
tempting blossoms. They are all alike remarkable for having a most
insignificant calyx, and being almost entirely composed of a great bunch
of silky stamens which fall in showers on the ground below. The most
attractive of these is the _kaveeka_, or Malay apple, which bears tufts
of crimson blossom especially attractive to certain lovely scarlet and
green parrots with purple heads, and which in due season bears a very
juicy though insipid crimson or white fruit. These parrots are few and
far between; and I miss the flocks of bright wings which so delighted me
in my glimpse of Australian bush.—Good-bye once more.
* * * * *
_Sunday, 31st October._
DEAR EISA,—The anxiously expected mail came in this morning and brought
your welcome letter.... I am still staying with Mrs Havelock, for the new
rooms at Nasova progress slowly. It is very difficult to push on work in
a country where _malua_ (by-and-by) is the reigning principle in every
action of life. But for myself, individually, I am most cosy here, and
we all meet continually. Lady Gordon has instituted weekly picnics just
for our own party, chiefly to get the gentlemen away from their incessant
writing.
We have already had three of these, so we have seen a good deal of this
isle of Ovalau, and very lovely it is. We always go by boat; indeed there
are no paths (except a footpath along the shore) where a sane man would
venture to ride even if there were horses, which there are not. Only an
enterprising butcher’s boy ventures to clamber up day by day to bring
needful supplies to such houses as are perched on the steep hillsides.
Captain Olive also has a horse; and now Nasova owns a pony on which Abbey
gallops into Levuka to forage for the house. The astonishment of the
natives at first sight of a horse knew no bounds. They gathered round it,
exclaiming, “Oh, the great pig!” and one rashly approached to pull its
tail, and was considerably startled by receiving a very severe kick.
I suppose you know that one of the remarkable peculiarities of these
isles is the strange lack of animal life. There were literally no
indigenous four-footed creatures except rats and flying-foxes, and even
the native rat has died out since foreign rats arrived from ships.
Even the pigs, which in some places now run wild in the jungle, were
originally introduced by the Tongans, who also brought cats, ducks,
and fowls. As to other animals, such names as _seepi_ (mutton), _goti_
(goat), _pussi_ (cat), _ose_ (horse), _collie_[9] (dog), and _bullama
kow_ (beef), sufficiently betray their foreign origin. Really I do miss
the troops of monkeys so familiar in India and Ceylon.
Happily the list of Fijian reptiles is equally small, so that flies and
mosquitoes are almost the only creatures we have to combat, and certainly
they are an irritating plague. We know that centipedes and scorpions
do exist, but they are very rare. I wish I could say as much for the
cockroaches which infest every house, and are in their turn devoured by
large spiders. I lay awake this morning watching the process. The unlucky
cockroach contrived to get entangled in a strong web, and old Mr Spider
darted out and tied him up securely, and then feasted at his leisure. Of
course we carefully cherish these spider allies, and glory in webs which
would greatly horrify your housemaids. The ants are also most energetic
friends, and organise burial parties for the cockroaches as fast as we
can kill them. Every morning we see solemn funerals moving across the
verandah to the garden, and these are parties of about one hundred of the
tiniest ants dragging away the corpse of a large cockroach.
Happily serpents are almost unknown, and the few that exist are not
venomous. So we walk through densest underwood, among dead leaves and
decaying timber, without fear of meeting anything more alarming than
innocent lizards or an occasional land-crab. Of lizards I have seen a
large green kind, and scores of a tiny blue and bronze, which flash like
jewels in the sunlight.
Equally pleasant is the total absence of the countless species of thorny
plants with which the whole jungle in Ceylon seemed to bristle. There I
was for ever being torn and scratched by cruel thorns, and every shrub
seemed armed with sharp needles—even the stems of certain kinds of
palm-trees being covered with myriad little daggers and darning-needles
two or three inches in length. Here the wild citron is the only thorny
tree I have observed, and even that was not indigenous; so the contrast
is highly in favour of Fiji, especially in the absence of serpents
and other venomous reptiles. But, on the other hand, Fiji has traps
for the unwary quite peculiar to itself. The commonest of these is
the tree-nettle, which really is a large forest-tree. Beautiful but
treacherous are its large glossy leaves, veined with red or white, most
attractive to the eye, but anguish to the touch;—days will pass ere the
pain of that burning sting subsides. However, forewarned is forearmed,
and you are in no danger of accidentally touching these large showy
trees, as you so often do the insignificant but obtrusive little nettle
of our own woods.
There are, however, several other trees which are so intensely poisonous
that it is dangerous even to touch them accidentally. One of these is the
_kaukaro_, or itch-plant, from which exudes a milky juice causing agony,
especially if the tiniest drop should come, even near the eye. Instances
have occurred when a man has ignorantly selected this wood, either as
timber from which to fashion his canoe, or a spar suitable for his mast;
and incautiously sitting on the wood while carpentering, has discovered,
when too late, that the subtle poison had entered by every pore, and
that his whole body was rapidly breaking out in angry spots, causing an
irritation utterly unbearable, and lasting for months, sometimes years.
As regards the general foliage, it is almost identical with that of
Ceylon, though perhaps scarcely so rich. This, however, varies much on
the different isles, and Ovalau is more noted for cliffs than for rich
foliage. We shall see that in glory when we go to Taviuni. Here the only
palm-trees are cocoa-nuts very much battered with the wind; and I miss
the beautiful _kittool_ and several other palms which I loved in Ceylon.
But I recognise various old friends, especially the large croton-tree,
with silvery leaves and tufts of white blossom. Here it is known as the
candle-nut, and reigns as monarch over an immense family of crotons
of every shade of eccentricity both of form and colour. But the most
gorgeous varieties are imported from isles nearer the equator.
There are several splendid trees which are quite new to me, being
peculiar to the South Seas. Such are the _ivi_[10] (pronounced _eevie_),
or Tahitian chestnut, and the _ndelo_,[11] with large glossy leaves like
the india-rubber tree. Both these are valuable as affording cool, deep
shade. There is also the _vutu_,[12] with its blossoms like tufts of
silk fringe; the _tavola_,[13] or native almond-tree; and the _ndawa_,
whose young leaves are bright crimson, and give a gleam of colour to the
general expanse of green. Then there is the _mbaka_, which grows like
the sacred banyan of India, beginning its life as a humble parasite, and
in old age presenting an intricate network of white stems, pillars, and
roots. It bears a very small leaf.
The commonest scrub-foliage is a hybiscus, with bluish-grey leaf, and
pale primrose-coloured blossom, with a dark claret heart: it is a pretty
flower on the tree, but dies when gathered. The inner bark yields a fibre
which is greatly valued by the natives, and which they split and die
yellow, red, or black, and make fringe kilts, to be worn either as sole
raiment or over the _sulu_. It is also used by the fisher-folk for making
their nets, especially the turtle-nets; but several other fibres are used
for this purpose.
On this island there really is no level ground at all; and you would
marvel where the people contrive to raise their crops, for the steep
hills rise from the sea-beach. But if you were to follow the course of
the picturesque streamlets which find their way down dark-wooded ravines,
you would find that every available corner is laid out in tiny terraced
fields, or rather miniature swamps, in which are cultivated the yams,
_taros_, and _kumalas_ (sweet potatoes), which are the staple of native
food. In taste they somewhat resemble coarse potatoes, especially the
yams, which sometimes attain a gigantic size—from one to ten feet in
length—and are said sometimes to weigh 100 lb. In some districts there
are two yam crops in a year.
The _taro_ is of a bluish-grey colour, and both in appearance and
consistency resembles mottled soap. Still I rather like it. Its leaves
are like those of our own arum on a large scale (it is of the same
family, _Arum esculentum_). One kind grows to a gigantic size, and its
huge rich green leaves stand six or seven feet above their watery bed.
You may often see a few plants of this giant arum close to the door of a
house, and very ornamental they are; but the object for which they were
placed there is to ward off the entrance of death or devils!
The leaves of the yam are like those of a convolvulus, as is also its
habit of growth, each plant being trained along a tall reed. There are a
great many different kinds, including one the root of which is throughout
of a vivid mauve.
There are also tiny banana-gardens in every little crevice of the rock,
and their great glossy leaves look cool and pleasant. There are about
thirty varieties grown on these isles, and some bear immense pendent
bunches with from one to two hundred fruits on each. The young inner
leaf, which has not unrolled itself, is like the finest silk, and when
warmed over the fire becomes quite waterproof, and is used as such. It
is also used to tie up little bundles of sweet, oily pudding, in which
the people delight. Do you realise that a banana or plantain leaf is from
three to four feet long, and from ten to fifteen inches wide? Sometimes
the girls carry them as parasols, and a very attractive picture they make.
There is one fruit-bearing plant here which is just like a natural
umbrella—namely, the _papaw_, which carries a handsome crown of deeply
indented leaves on a tall curiously diapered stem, round which hangs a
cluster of green and golden fruit, useful when unripe as a vegetable, and
when ripe as a fruit. I am told that the leaves have the valuable quality
of making tough meat tender if it is wrapped up or cooked in them; and
also that they are useful in washing, being saponaceous, so that if
soaked with dirty clothes they save a considerable amount of soap.
Another plant, which to you is familiar as ornamental greenhouse foliage,
is the dracæna (or ti-tree, as it is called in the colonies), which
here is grown for the sake of its root, which is so large as sometimes
to weigh 40 lb., and which answers the purpose of sugar. It is baked
and used for puddings. It tastes like liquorice. The crown of long
glossy leaves is useful as fodder where cattle exist; but here it is
the equivalent of so many yards of green silk, and supplies some pretty
damsel with a decent petticoat.
The crimson dracæna is sacred to the dead, and is constantly planted
on the graves, and very beautiful is the effect thus produced; while
overhead droops the mournful dull green of the _noko-noko_, or
casurina-tree, which I can only describe as somewhat resembling the
Weymouth pine, and which seems to sigh with every faint breath of wind
that stirs its pendent foliage.
Here and there a small plantation of paper mulberry (_Broussonetia_),
the bark of which supplies material for native cloth, or a patch of
arrowroot, or perhaps a few tall sugar-canes or tufts of Indian corn,
complete the common produce of the native gardens, and combine to produce
an effect of rich and varied foliage.
But I must tell you about our picnics. As I before said, they are
always water-parties; so we muster several boats and canoes, and start
as early as we possibly can to try and profit by the delicious cool
of the morning. Our first expedition was to the neighbouring isle of
Moturiki, which is Thakombau’s own private property, specially reserved
from Europeans, so the people see few white faces. There was, however,
no staring or mobbing, and we set them down as a very polite race. The
moment we landed they brought us fresh cocoa-nuts to drink, and took us
to a large native house with wide heavy thatch,—and very grateful was
its cool shade after several hours in the glaring sun. Fine mats were
spread for us at one end of the house, which is slightly raised for use
of “the quality”—an especially fine one, of a peculiar make called _tambu
kaisi_ (forbidden to commoners), being placed for the white chief; and on
this, custom demands that he should sit alone, as it would be contrary to
all native manners that even a chief’s wife should sit on his mat. Not
that wives or women-folk are looked upon in Fiji as inferior animals:
quite the contrary; their position is very good, and their influence
acknowledged.
Sir Arthur considers that a punctilious observance of the principal
points in native etiquette is a means to secure respect and gain
influence with the people who now hail him as their highest chief, so,
amongst other ceremonies that have to be observed, is the invariable
brewing of yangona (which you have heard spoken of in other groups as the
_kava_). This, from a purely artistic point of view, is a very attractive
scene, so I will describe it to you minutely. Picture to yourself the
deep shade of the house, its brown smoke-thatched rafters and dark
thatch-roof, with a film of blue smoke rising from the fireplace at the
far end, which is simply a square in the floor edged with stones, round
which, on mats, lie the boatmen, and a group of natives with flowers
coquettishly stuck in their hair, and very slight drapery of native
cloth, and fringes of bright croton-leaves. A great wooden bowl, with
four legs, is then brought in. It is beautifully polished from long
use, and has a purple bloom like that on a grape. A rope is fastened to
it, and the end of this is thrown towards the chief. The yangona-root
is then brought in, scraped and cleaned, cut up into small pieces, and
distributed to a select circle of young men to chew. The operation is not
_quite_ so nasty as might be supposed, as they repeatedly rinse their
mouths with fresh water during the process, which occupies some time;
while all the company sit round most solemnly, and some sing quaint
_mékés_ (_i.e._, choruses), very wild and characteristic. They are so old
that many of them are incomprehensible even to the singers, who merely
repeat the words in an unknown tongue, as they learnt them from their
parents.
When the chewing process is complete, each man produces a lump of finely
chewed white fibre. This is then deposited in a large wooden bowl, and
one of the number is told off to pour water on the yangona, and wring
it out through a piece of hybiscus fibre, which is like a piece of fine
netting. A turbid yellowish fluid is thus produced, in taste resembling
rhubarb and magnesia, flavoured with sal-volatile. It is handed round in
cups made of the shell of large cocoa-nuts, the chief being the first
to drink, while all the onlookers join in a very peculiar measured
hand-clapping. When he is finished, they shout some exclamation in
chorus, and clap hands in a different manner. Then all the others drink
in regular order of precedence.
Though no one pretends to like the taste of yangona, its after-effects
are said to be so pleasantly stimulating that a considerable number of
white men drink it habitually, and even insist on having it prepared by
chewing, which is a custom imported from Tonga, and one which has never
been adopted in the interior of Fiji, where the old manner of grating the
root is preferred. It certainly sounds less nasty, but _connoisseurs_
declare with one voice that grated yangona is not comparable to that
which has been chewed![14] The gentlemen all say that, sometimes when
they have had a very long day of hard walking, they are thankful to the
native who brings them this, the only stimulant which he has to offer,
and that its effect is like sal-volatile. Confirmed drinkers acquire a
craving for it. Its action is peculiar, inasmuch as drunkenness from this
cause does not affect the brain, but paralyses the muscles, so that a man
lies helpless on the ground, perfectly aware of all that is going on.
This is a condition not unknown to the British sailor in Fiji.
This was the first time we had witnessed the scene, so of course we
were exceedingly interested. Afterwards I had a long walk through the
bush with Sir Arthur, Mr Maudslay, and Mr Le Hunte, Lady Gordon and
Mrs Havelock preferring to rest. We had a grand scramble through
rich vegetation, and we rested awhile in a quiet old graveyard partly
overgrown with tall grasses, the graves all edged with the black stems
of the tree-fern; and on many there is a low, red-leafed plant; on
others, the tall red dracæna, with which the Fijians love to adorn the
resting-place of their dead, as cypress or willow mark God’s acre in Old
England. From this calm spot we overlooked the blue Pacific, dotted with
many isles, chief of which is the clear-cut mountain outline of Viti
Levu, the great isle, which I hope to visit ere long. How beautiful they
all looked in the golden sunset light, as we rowed and sailed back to
Nasova!
Our next picnic was to the romantic Levoni valley at the back of this
island. We sailed past Moturiki and two smaller isles, and then rowed
two miles up a cool pleasant river with deep green shade till we reached
a landing-place, whence we walked a short distance to the clean, tidy
little native town of Baretta. Mr Maudslay and Baron von Hügel walked all
the way across the mountains, a tough day’s work. I walked up the valley
with Sir Arthur and Colonel Pratt, but stopped half-way to sketch the
splendid tree-ferns. We hurried back, intending to start at four o’clock
to catch the tide, but found all the children of both the Roman Catholic
and Wesleyan schools assembled in separate flocks. They looked very nice
with their pretty necklaces and fringes of flowers and bright leaves worn
over the little kilt of native cloth, and across the chest. Each party
performed a small _méké_, and did a little reading and writing, although
Captain Knollys, as admiral of our fleet, deemed the delay highly
imprudent, for the tide was falling fast. As it was, we had to walk some
distance through mangrove-swamp and tall reeds, and it was 6 P.M. (the
invariable hour of sunset) ere we embarked. So we had to row home in the
dark, in danger from many coral patches, but reached Nasova safely at 9
P.M., the children pretty well tired out.
Last Tuesday our picnic was at a pretty sandy bay, shaded by large trees,
seven miles along the coast in the opposite direction; but Sir Arthur and
Mr Gordon were both unwell, and could not come, and Sir William Hackett
also failed. On our way back we landed at Waitova, where the native
police have their headquarters—a pretty, shady place, with a pleasant
stream, the upper pools of which were Commodore Goodenough’s favourite
bathing-place.
Captain Olive lives there with his men, in a regular native house, and
sleeps on a pile of about twenty fine Fijian mats. He has no chair, and
no furniture. His glass and crockery at present consist of one cup and
one tumbler. He feeds native-fashion, having his food brought to him on
plaited trays and banana-leaves, the only remarkable object in the house
being a large yangona-bowl. We went down to spend an afternoon there one
day, and he fed us with sweet native puddings and pine-apples.
When we landed there on Tuesday there was a large gathering of Fijians,
playing at throwing spears, and a game called _tinqua_—which consists in
throwing reeds, with oval wooden heads, called _toa_, that skim along the
ground for 100 or 150 yards—and other sports. They were all adorned with
the usual festal garlands and green leaves; their faces painted, some of
a rich black, which is truly hideous, though I do not consider scarlet
or blue to be much better. One man was painted all over spots like a
leopard; some wore white cloth _sulus_ as full as an opera-dancer’s
skirt; others wore little but the fringe of long black water-weed, with
a great bunch of white _tappa_, _en panier_. The Vuni Valu’s daughter,
Andi Arietta Kuilla (Lady Harriet Flag), was looking on. She is a huge,
good-natured-looking woman; very clever, I am told.
There was quite a stir in Levuka last Monday in honour of Miss Cudlip’s
marriage to Mr Tucker. The bride’s family being very popular in the
isles, a large number of the planters came to it, and they had a
merry dance. The young couple started for their home on the big isle,
three days’ journey in an open boat, _hoping_, if wind and tide prove
favourable, to be able to touch at a friend’s house each night. No nice
yacht-cabins here. I wonder how you would like such a life!
Now little Rachel has come to carry me off to tea, so I must say
good-bye.—Ever lovingly yours.