THE VALLEY OF TIVÓLI.
I was conducted by my newly-found friends into the valley where the
chief town of the district was situated, and from which I had often
heard sounds denoting the presence of a numerous population. The valley
was called Tivóli, the Fijian word for wild yam. The thick-eaved houses
were clustered together in the shade of an extensive grove of
bread-fruit trees. The buildings formed in a somewhat irregular way
three sides of a square. The central space was the village green, on
which the sports of the inhabitants and the friendly tournaments they
often engaged in were enacted.
Entering the chief’s house, I found him reclining in the midst of his
wives and concubines on a pile of coloured masi or tapa[6]. Three sides
of a mosquito-net made of the same material, only much finer in texture,
hung in festoons around him. Some fathoms of native cloth wrapped round
his waist lay in graceful folds upon his brawny limbs. In his hand he
held a neatly-made fan of palm leaves; and close by was his wooden
pillow, shaped like an office-ruler fixed on two low stands. His hair
was worn like an enormous ball of jetty frizz, which projected an equal
distance on all sides, and added greatly to the appearance of his
stature. He was not more than 6ft. 1in. in height, but he seemed to be
several inches taller. Regular features, a pointed beard, dark-brown
skin, and luminous black eyes, which glowed when they lighted up with
some hidden feeling of savage joy like a piece of charcoal when the
slumbering fire is blown upon, completed the external marks of a
distinguished personage of far from unprepossessing appearance.
Footnote 6:
Native cloth. Masi is the Fijian word; tapa, a Tongan word, is also
now in common use.
The house in which I found myself was about 30ft. long and 15ft. broad.
The structure was externally not handsomer than a hayrick, which it
closely resembled, with the exception that there were holes in the side,
over which mats were hung, for windows. The projecting end of the
ridgepole was ornamented with cowrie shells. The walls were about 5ft.
high, but the ridgepole was a good 25ft. from the ground. The doorway
was cunningly contrived to be so low that the most exalted personage
could not gain audience of the master without stooping almost with his
hands to the ground. The walls had a thickness of three reeds. The outer
and inner rows of reeds being arranged perpendicularly and the middle
horizontally, the builders had been enabled to produce a handsome and
artistic effect by a pattern in sinnet worked with great regularity and
neatness. The most prominent object in the middle of the floor was a
sunken fireplace, protected by a wooden kerb. Here a large earthenware
pot was simmering, and a thin smoke curled up from a slow fire, slightly
obscuring the light in the room. An elevation at one end of the
dwelling, where the chief reclined, had dividing curtains of masi, which
showed that it was a divan by day and a place of repose by night.
The walls were as plentifully hung with useful articles as an English
farmers kitchen. The most noticeable was the kava-bowl, with strainer
and cup. Ornamental baskets, gourds and bottles, fans, sunshades, and
oil and food dishes of strong wood, attracted immediate attention.
Wooden bowls, earthen pans, and glazed water-vessels rested at the base
of the walls. Near the hearth I noticed a knife—made, as I afterwards
learned, from some human bone—for cutting bread (decayed bread-fruit)
from the pit in which it is kept buried till it is in a putrescent
state, highly relished by Fijian _bon vivants_; a kneading board for the
bread, some cocoanut cups, a bamboo drinking vessel plugged with grass,
and a soup dish. Several earthen pots, capable of holding three or four
gallons each, were propped against the kerbing of the fireplace. The
Fijians have no mean skill in the potter’s art. In most of their
water-vessels they have taken for their model the nest of the mason bee,
which builds its little round dwelling with an opening at one side,
terminating in a narrow neck with a turned-back lip, in the precise form
of a common Fijian pot. A skewer for trying cooked food, and a wooden
fork or two, were also among the things which a hasty glance round
disclosed to me, and encouraged me to believe that my daily fare was
likely to be of a far from contemptible kind in a place where the
culinary appliances were so good.
The company included a liberally-provided harem and some important minor
chiefs and councillors. There was Qio (shark), the priest; Thikinovu
(the centipede), King Big-Wind’s brother; Na Ulu (the head), the King’s
herald; Kuila (the flag), the chief ambassador; Davui (trumpet shell),
the tribal minstrel; Matauloki (bent-axe), half-brother to the King, a
crooked-backed individual of sinister aspect, who eyed me in no friendly
way; and Lalabalavu (long-emptiness), the court fool. Among the ladies
the most distinguished in appearance was Lolóma, the chief’s favourite
daughter. There were two fine stout women, his favourite
wives—Randivanua and Watina; and two pretty little girls—Ko Sena (the
flower), and Sénimóli (orange blossom), Lolóma’s youngest sisters.
King Big-Wind received me with great solemnity, directing that I should
be treated with divine honours. He bestowed on me the name of Ratu
Thava, or Sir Hurricane, telling me that I had come with the storm, and
must be its spirit. The herald proclaimed my appellation at the palace
door, and three fearful blasts on the conch-shell announced to the
distant townsfolk that the Child of the Hurricane, a white God from the
unknown countries, had been adopted by the tribe as their papalangi.
The King told me to make myself quite at home in his family, remarking
that the coast tribes would not dare to attack him, as they had
threatened, now that he had a white God with him. Kava and food in
abundance were offered me, and I was soon on friendly terms with my
neighbours, some of whom had a difficulty at first in satisfying
themselves that I was really a human being. It was, indeed, many days
before any of the children could be induced to come within a stone’s
throw of me.
After I had given the company some description of the vessel in which I
was wrecked, in whose construction they took an intense interest,
Big-Wind reminded them of a legend in the tribe which said that a
priest, under the inspiration of his God, had predicted that one day an
“outriggerless canoe” would arrive at the islands from some foreign
land. The natives could not conceive of a vessel being at sea without an
outrigger, which is the mainstay of their own canoes, and the prophecy
was disbelieved, notwithstanding that the old priest successfully
launched a wooden dish on a pool of water in proof of the possibility of
his idea being carried out. After hearing my description of the Molly
Asthore the company one and all asserted that the prediction had been
fulfilled.
There was a tradition in the tribe of a further prediction that after
the arrival of a canoe without an outrigger a vessel without ropes or
cordage would come. Some of the young Fijians of Big-Wind’s court lived
to see, nearly half a century later, a steamship in Levuka harbour,
which they considered verified this prediction also.
In the evening, sports were celebrated by the light of the moon on the
village green in honour of the new arrival. The dancers numbered over
100, and there was an orchestra of 20 persons. The musical instruments
of the Fijians are the conch-shell, a flute played by blowing through
the nose, pandean pipes, a sort of jew’s harp (which consists of a strip
of bamboo), drums made of hollowed logs or bamboos with cross-pieces
near the ends, and a long stick, from which clear notes are produced by
striking it with a shorter one.
The shadowy ball-room is at length prepared. It is bounded by groves of
thick-leaved trees in which the fireflies have set their lamps, and it
is canopied by the moon-lit firmament, which sheds a silvery light over
all. The night is radiant as the day, and infinitely more ethereal.
The dancers are all in gala attire. The women are profusely decorated
with flowers and green garlands, or red ribands made of the fine
membrane of a leaf. Their hair is tricked out to an immense size, their
lissom bodies are scented with sandalwood, and they wear likus dyed all
manner of colours. The men’s faces are painted in grotesque patterns,
and they sport ornamental garters and armlets of shells and coloured
grasses. The step begins slowly to the accompaniment of a low chanting
and clapping of hands, the striking of bamboos on the ground producing a
sound like that of the tambourine. The speed is gradually accelerated,
but the inflections of the body and every movement are done by the
company in exact time. The violence of the stamping increases, the
measure becomes inconceivably animated and wild—for the Fijians dance
with their whole bodies, eyes and all—till at length, the climax
reached, there is a grand shout of “Woi!” by the whole party at the top
of their voices, and the task of the exhausted performers is ended for a
time.
There were several kinds of dances, and among them the Flying Fox Dance
and the Waves of the Sea Dance. These, of which I had seen a mere
indication from my leafy retreat in the hills, were now performed with
the elaborateness proper to a state occasion.
A large company stood up for the Flying Fox Dance, and began by singing
a soft air, to which responses were made by a chorus, the women
accompanying the music with graceful motions of the hands, making a step
forward and back again with one foot, while the other remained fixed.
Presently there was a quicker measure, the dancers made a half-turn,
leaping and clapping their hands. Then the company broke into two
parties, which advanced towards each other and went through some
evolutions, which terminated the introduction. The next part depicted
the robbing of a banana-tree by flying foxes. The banana-tree was
represented by a pole set up in the middle of the square, with a bunch
of fruit at the top. The _ballet d’action_ then proceeded. The foxes met
in consultation, determined on a robbery, sent out skirmishers to guard
against a surprise, and then made the attack. One old fox climbed the
tree, and the little foxes clustered under it crying with delight at the
prospect of ripe fruit. While the fox in the tree hung by his legs and
flapped his arms, another climbed after him, and there was a great deal
of fighting, scratching, and squalling, after the manner of these
animals, until one obtained the mastery. All the evolutions of the
dancers were in imitation of the motions of the flying foxes, and their
cry was also accurately imitated.
The dance representing the waves of the sea was equally graceful. There
was the advance of a long wave and its little shoots running up the
beach, the band representing the roar of the surf. The ocean ebbed and
flowed, low waves sighed upon the shore and advanced in merry laughing
ripples, throwing here and there a fringe of spray. The winsome
prattling lasses assumed a graver mood. The sea was lashed into fury,
surges vast as hills roared to the sound of rhythmic feet, and, breaking
on some rocky prominence, clove the air with milk-white jets. The
dancers flung their arms above their white masi-covered heads as they
met, and when they bounded high above the ground, like the white foam of
the sea when it hurls its columns of spray and surges of beaded water in
the face of the sun, the spectators, no longer able to control
themselves, fairly shouted with delight.
Every movement was performed in the most exact time; and, as in the case
of the Flying Fox Dance, the performance seemed like a poetic drama
represented by the perfection of pantomime.
The scene is a singularly wild one. The flash of dark eyes, the gleam of
white teeth, and the spectacle of bosoms, arms, and ankles glancing bare
in utter abandonment to the enjoyment of the moment, with the dark forms
of the savages sitting around make a picture not readily to be
forgotten. The weird music of the drum and fluttering pipes adds to the
wonder, glow, and tumult. As the girls shout, stamp, and reel in maddest
ecstacies, their eyes aglow under their short curly hair, and sparkling
with the grace and glitter of the movement, strangely mixing with the
mass of blending hues, it is intoxicating.
The evening closes with laughter and endless chatter. Presently the
love-chirp ceases. The village sleeps, silvery and still.
In a few days I was fully initiated in the mysteries of the native
_menu_. The Fijians usually take two meals in the day. I soon got used
to their bill of fare, which is a liberal one. The bread-fruit was
served up in an infinite variety of ways; there are a score of different
kinds of puddings, and of soups there are at least a dozen sorts,
including turtle soup—though they prefer roast turtle. The juice of the
cocoanut, the ti-root, and the sugar-cane, make excellent pudding
sauces.
The Fijians’ life in the good old times was largely made up of eating
and sleeping. If a man keeps at work till mid-day, he likes to bathe a
little after that hour, then to take a rather long siesta, hard as his
pillow is. Towards evening you may see him strolling in his garden, or
along the beach if he lives on the coast, cooling himself in the
pleasant breeze. Presently he returns to his snug and well-matted hut to
enjoy the warm evening meal. If the song, the dance, and the moonlight
do not allure him, the soft cool mat, the wooden pillow, and somebody
present to talk, may occupy him even till morning. Wanting the song or
the tale, hard sleep is his sole refuge.
The men usually collect in the bures or strangers’ houses, which serve
the purposes of an English club, at about 4 o’clock in the afternoon to
talk. The married men sleep there till dawn, and then return to their
wives. The Fijian in the thinly-peopled hill districts does not sleep
with his consort. The nuptial bower is in some secluded part of the
woods, known only to the pair, where, as with our first parents, a soft
downy bank, damasked with flowers, invites to amorous dalliance. Boys,
until they have been publicly recognised as adults, have a sleeping bure
to themselves.
Among the occupations of the villagers which interested me greatly was
the art of native-cloth making. Strips of the bark of the malo tree,
which have been steeped in water, are beaten by women on a log with a
grooved mallet. The masi or tapa is pieced together with the starch of
the taro. The cloth is then printed in divers patterns with strips of
bamboo, several kinds of dye being used. The rhythm of tapa-beating has
as cheerful and industrious a sound as that of threshing corn in an
English village.
In a very short time I was a familiar friend in all the houses in the
valley. Sometimes I extended my walks to a neighboring village, and was
always received as an honoured guest. I often felt disposed to say with
the poet—
“Among the hills a hundred homes have I,
My table in the wilderness is spread;
In these lone spots one honest smile can buy
Plain fare, warm welcome, and a rushy bed.”
The tropical forest was an unending source of admiration to me. The
palm, rearing its polished shafts, stately as a Corinthian column, with
its coronal of sighing plumes through which the golden clusters of nuts
appear dangling so temptingly far up in the sunshine, is in itself a
beautiful object, worthy of imitation in architecture. The Fijians
ascend these smooth pillars, with no other aid than that of their hands
and feet, with surprising rapidity. Tapping the nuts with their fingers,
they know by the sound those which are fit for food. They prefer the
young nuts, in which the milk is as clear as spring water, and the flesh
of the consistency of cream. When a cocoanut has lain on the ground a
short time, a shoot emerges from one of its three eyes and enters the
ground. A cord connects it with the nut, and supplies half the
nourishment of the young plant till it is strong enough to draw all it
requires from the ground. The tree and its products are put to such an
infinite variety of uses that without it the natives would be badly off.
A delightful object in the landscape, full of repose, and restful for
the eye to light upon, is the banana, with its lush fat green stem
rising from 10ft. to 15ft., and sometimes as much as 2ft. in diameter.
The sheath-like stalks end in vast green blades, often 12ft. long and
4ft. broad, which serve the natives for dishes and sunshades. The whorls
of fruit hang below the curving fronds, with a heart of deep-red flowers
forming a brilliant bouquet behind them.
But the true glory of the Polynesian forest is the bread-fruit, crowning
the dewy grove with its ample form and luxuriant foliage, and showing
itself a beneficent providence to the races it supports without
demanding any attention in return. The fruit of this tree is the staple
article of food of the Fijians. The imposing figure, with horizontal
branches and cone-shaped head, rises to a height of from 30ft. to 40ft.
Its broad spreading branches are covered with large oblong glossy
leaves, which, during the progress of decay, assume the most beautiful
tints. The fruit, weighing from 4lb. to 5lb., is about the size of a
rock-melon, which it also somewhat resembles in shape, and when ripe is
of a rich yellow colour. The surface of the rough rind is reticulated,
and has small square or lozenge-shaped divisions, which rise like little
conical prominences. The inside is a white pulp, all of which is eaten
except a small core containing the seeds. In taste it is insipid, with a
slight sweetness. When roasted, or when eaten with a preparation of
cocoanut, like batter-pudding with melted butter and sugar, it is very
palatable. The natives are fond of the sour paste they make of the
fermented bread, baked, and eaten both hot and cold. The bread is
allowed to ferment in pits lined with grass. It is often kept in this
way for months. In this putrescent state, however, it is disgusting to
white men. The bread-fruit trees, which are always a prominent object in
the landscape, have a picturesque appearance peculiar to themselves,
which no description can convey.
In my walks I was occasionally accompanied by Lolóma. Our friendship was
not viewed with a favourable eye by Bent-Axe, who had been betrothed to
her from her infancy, but she lost no opportunity of showing her
disinclination for his society.
The happiest time, however, was in the long silvery nights, when the
valley was filled with the mild splendour of the regent of the sky, and
the people turned with glee to joys which tire not. When the moonlight,
falling softly, lighted with sheen the little village of Koroivónu,
Lolóma and her handmaidens were always ready for the song and dance.
They were as merry as a sisterhood of parakeets who cannot sleep in the
trees for the exhilarating play of the moon. There seemed to be nothing
to dim the brightness of those lightsome hours.
As time wore on, and I explained to my friends something of the history
of the white man and his mode of life, the more intelligent of them
ceased to regard me as a supernatural being. I did many things which
seemed very wonderful to them, and explained some natural phenomena in a
manner which they regarded as marvellous, but they gradually discovered
what I always impressed on them, that my powers were limited. The common
people, nevertheless, continued to regard me as one divinely endowed.