THERE HAD BEEN SOME TALK over the last few days of an uga vule hunt. Una told me that one had been planned for me. It would consist of a large party—Bill, Joe, Mike, Tookai, and Suvi and all their family. We would leave next morning, early, to be gone for three days.
I knew nothing about an uga vule hunt—but I was raring to go.
At daylight I wobbled down to Itchy’s outrigger and climbed aboard. Six other outriggers were assembled; families and gear were aboard. Everybody was in festal mood. The village lined the strand to wave us away. My throne was lashed aboard and we shoved off. Itchy stood on the dancing bow punting the thin shallow hull along at lively speed with a long pole. Una stood on the stern helping with the same man’s job.
Later, when we changed course and the wind hauled round to aft, two heavy coconut fronds were stuck in the bow and the wind pushing against them drove us along effortlessly. Una laid aside her pole and steered from the stern with a large paddle.
The purpose of an uga vule hunt is to mix work with pleasure and at the same time inject the quest for food. This became apparent as the hunt progressed. As we glided over the coral bottom all eyes searched the coral shelves for signs of life.
Suddenly Itchy splashed overboard, spear in hand. Leaning over the side I watched him jerk downward through six fathoms of water, overtaking a large sea turtle that had seen us and plunged. Itchy stopped in mid-water, hovering over the turtle. His muscles tensed, then rippled, and I could see he was jabbing viciously. Then he reached for the surface with long strokes, towing his kill behind.
About two miles away from the village we nosed into a flat depression on the rocky coast. It was fronted by a white beach and planted to coconut trees. The boats pulled in and threw out their stone anchors made fast to the boat by vines. Una went ashore to stew tea for my morning meal, for I still ate every three hours. Itchy carried his copra knife, burlap bags, and axe ashore.
Mike’s wife brought me some “cat’s eyes,” on the back of which grows a sweet-meated little animal you eat raw. I had them with kumalas, bananas, and tea for my morning snack.
The hunt was to take us right around the island. At each coconut patch we were to stop and gather the copra, or coconut meat. When the copra work was done the women were to pitch in and comb the area in search of the uga vule. Then we would load the copra and the uga vules, if any, and proceed on along the coast to the next open shore grown to coconut palms.
The coconut palm is the basic commodity in native life. The meat and milk of the green nut are an important liquid and food of the diet. Later, when the husk has dried and the nut matured, a coconut “cream” for cooking is obtained, as well as wali wali or ointment for the skin. The husk is used for fires, for smoking the koro against mosquitoes, and making sennit or native rope. The dried meat of the mature nut is shredded and eaten or is sold or traded as copra, about the only source of income open to the native.
The plaited fronds of the palm serve as building material for house roofs and walls, mattresses for the beds, baskets and fans. The bole is used for uprights, crossbeams, and the ridgepole in the hut.
When we made our first stop the coconut harvest was on. At a bark from Itchy the boys hurried off into the palm thicket carrying coarse jute bags. Each family worked separately, and for itself. Itchy and Una had an edge with four sons in the field. The boys’ job was to quest for the brown dried nuts, and when their bag was filled to bring them in to Una. She, working with the axe, split each nut in halves with a stroke and dropped them near Itchy, seated close by.
Itchy with the double-edged copra knife in hand, twisted the white meat from the shell by a magic motion. It was tossed in a pile and later sacked. Soon the area was depleted of suitable coconuts. While the men sacked the harvest and loaded it on the outriggers, the women went deftly into the jungle in search of the uga vule.
Searching out the uga vule is an extreme test of eyes and intimate knowledge of the denizen’s habits. He lives in the rocks, burrows in the undergrowth, and is difficult to ferret out and subdue. Unfortunately I was still too weak to follow into the jungle, so I missed seeing how the captures were made.
In less than an hour six uga vules showed up among the huntresses, so we moved on.
The fronds perched in the bow caught the wind and pushed us off onto the lagoon. One, two, four, five, seven, nine fathoms of lucent water showed under the hull. A coral tip, or a shell, or a fish at that depth is as clear as in the hand. I liked nothing better than lying on the outrigger deck searching into the constant puzzle of the lagoon bottoms.
“Vasua!” A piercing cry from Una. Before I could see her, she was gone. She had dived in. I wriggled around so I could watch her spiral downward through fifty feet of water, spear in hand. Her hair streamed behind. Her vivid sulu flashed against slanting sun rays. She pulled up short, settled in slow motion on the ocean floor. Itchy spun the boat around.
Una’s objective was a giant Fiji clam. She had spied the open lip and dived on the split second. The clam blends with the coral, as rattlers in the dust. Taking them from where they nestle in the coral can be dangerous.
Itchy had lost his first wife in a tragic episode with the vasua. She had hunted alone on the open reef, had thrust her hand under a partly open shell, and it had snapped on her, imprisoning her at the wrist as in a vise. And there she had perished, helpless, before the rising tide.
As Una prepared to approach the clam, to spear him at a vital spot, Itchy poised himself. Spear in hand he was ready to dive down to pry her free should any commotion indicate she was trapped. I leaned more closely to the water to see what Una would do, and to see how she would do it.
She eased over her prey, and by a soft movement slipped her spear point to the shell edge. At this point a motion of water will warn the giant bivalve and he will slap his curving shell edges closed. A crucial moment. In a second she jerked. She thrust quickly, and with a joggling motion she twisted violently. The powerful, vital muscle that clamps the lids shut was severed. Then she seemed to gather herself upward with long strokes and came to the outrigger to breathe. In a moment she dived again. This time Itchy stood poised anew with his spear. Una was still in danger. A shark might be lurking in the coral heads. Una floated onto the living coral floor, spread apart the valves of the clam, and cut away its choice meats. The shell is thick and sometimes weighs hundreds of pounds. Una swam back with the chunks of fat white flesh and heaved them on deck.
Next we stopped at a larger grove farther along the northwest shore, where we lunched. We carried away eleven more uga vules. That night our camp was pitched on the north point of the island on the shore of a small embayment. I slept on a mattress of pandanus strippings, in an open clearing of the grove. The stars were my ceiling, while the gentle roar of the tide on the distant reef dulled my senses.
The next morning we crowded our growing copra yield onto the shallow-draft outriggers, pushed off from under bending coconut palms growing over the water, and hauled down the uninviting windward shore.
We made two stops in the morning and one in the afternoon. Itchy and Bill conferred on whether we should attempt to make another inlet farther along before dark. They decided yes, so we loaded up and cast off, heading southeast along the cliffy shore.
Before we reached the spot, I could see it around the point ahead. The palm fronds showed over the cruel, jagged lava, near where I had been cast up. We crept up to the point and threw our frail craft into the race that swept past it; and ran with a spurt into the open bay.
There on the exposed sand was a sight I had never dreamed possible to see. My one-time jaunty little cutter, Pagan, lay washed up on the beach—keel deep in sand she was, battered and splintered by her trials. She had scraped over two hundred yards of ungodly reef, floated a mile across the lagoon, and settled on the beach straight and level, with her bow pointed out to sea. There is no logical explanation for it. Nothing I can think of can explain it. She sits there today, hopelessly denuded, wrecked beyond the wildest dream of repair. It is a heavy-hearted sight.
That night I walked over to her, and rubbed her splintered stubs. Few boats have lived her thrilling life. Though her life was short under my hand, she lived it to the full and gave a full measure of service. In our trials together I had come to know my boat as a real person, and now I saw her bones captured by the sand. I felt a welling of deeper sentiment than one should feel over the riven kindlings of a hulk. I caressed her aged timbers, looked the last time over her naked frame, and walked away.
By midmorning the following day the open shores of Pagan’s Cove, as I named the miniature bay, were sufficiently hunted; we shoved off. It was from this point that Itchy had embarked the night of my rescue, and groped through the dense jungle and over the ragged rock to me. We passed the sandy nook where the sea had thrown me up; down a short way was the treacherous cove where I had lain the last day and night.
Another mile and we pulled into the last inlet before reaching the village. The spot was too close to Lomaloma to have much copra, and it yielded only three uga vules. Here the bags of copra were unloaded and sprinkled over the flat rocks for drying in the sun. In a few days they would be resacked, and placed in special little huts near the village till the copra boat called in January. Before we departed I noticed a new activity.
The women brought long lengths of a brown vine onto the beach. All set to and cut it into twelve-inch lengths. Then on a rock or log it was pounded into wisps and bound in small sheaves. Each outrigger took a number of the pulpy bundles and pushed off. We didn’t continue down the shallow coast, but put off into the deeper lagoon.
We hovered over the coral heads, watching the grottoes beneath, where sea life teemed. Presently something was seen in one of the black recesses of a coral peak. All craft hurried to the spot and anchored in a circle over it. Several heavy steel spears were cleared for action on each boat.
The sheaves of pounded fiber were dipped for a long minute and pounded again on the outrigger prows. With these the women swam down into the limpid water, depositing them at arm’s reach in the dark openings. The men stood poised on the flat prows, spear in hand, tensed to dive.
Evidently the beaten vine exudes a substance which partly paralyzes, at the same time annoying, the fish. Fish, ordinarily too quick to follow with the eye, drifted lackadaisically from the caverns. The men plunged spear first on the easy prey. In two hours there was fish enough for the village. We filled out extra space with red, blue, green, brown, white, and black fish—some of them four feet long.
At dusk we pulled back once more into the bay of Lomaloma.
In the keteketes or baskets were two dozen fish. Also there were two turtles, a number of uraus, vasua, oysters, eels, turtle eggs, and thirty-seven uga vules. The village was festive. My buddy Tupa, the chief, told me that next day there would be a village feast in my honor.
That night I felt infinitely stronger, something like my old self. The three-day outing had done it: three days of the freshest air I ever breathed, coupled with the rich meat of the uga vule and the life-sustaining coconut milk. The whole time I wore only a sulu. I lay hours in the sun. I strolled the beaches, or I napped, or I kidded with my friends—a proper combination of activities to restore health.
I looked forward to the coming feast.
The whole morning was consumed in preparation for it. First of all, the native ovens were made ready. These are ingenious devices for baking food in the ground. Broad holes—a dozen of them—about two feet deep were dug. In the bottoms, a bed of glowing coals was built up. Over the searing bed a layer of round stones was placed. The food, well wrapped in banana leaves for preservation, was placed on the hot stones and covered with sand. In three hours it was uncovered, and presto! The meat was so tender it fell from the bones.
Two hefty pigs were slaughtered and committed to the ovens. Ten chickens were baked, a hundred pounds of fish, thirty uga vules, kumalas by the dozen as well as jaina (bananas), casava (a type of yam), mae (breadfruit), uvi (sweet potato)—everything edible, cookable, and in season. Fruits such as eating bananas, papayas, mangoes, pineapple, passion fruit, and others I neither know nor could remember, were in abundance.
Young coconuts were stacked about to wash the feast down. On Tuvutha a feast isn’t a feast unless there is plenty left over.
Palm fronds were cast side by side and end on end half the length of the grassy common in the village center. The food was uncovered from the savory ovens and crowded steaming onto the palms. Within the reach of all was a portion of everything.
We sat down cross-legged—for now I was strong enough and had flesh enough over my bones to sit comfortably—before the unbelievable abundance. My place was that of the guest—at the head of the table. Several leis of stained hibiscus fiber entwined with flowers were given me. In appreciation of the kindness and generosity of the whole village I wore them about my neck, despite their discomfort.
The chief nodded at me to begin. I dipped my fingers in the food within reach and all followed suit. The banquet was on. I ate of everything, as did every feaster. In the next hour we made classic gourmands of ourselves; for we ate to completion, then chatted awhile, and ate again. I grew sick of the sight of food; the very thought of it nearly burst me.
The Fijian loves a heavy eater. The more I ate the more they beamed.
The chief at last arose and gave a pained speech and sat down quickly. The pastor spoke; also the schoolteacher; and my philosopher friend of the wistful face. I was called upon to tell my story; which I did, to the uninhibited delight of all. The girls came forth and performed their gaudy sit-down dance. The chief stood and proclaimed a ceremonial Yangona to be held immediately in his hut, and the feast was over.
I was in no condition for a stag party, remembering the effects of the last. To show the boys I could take it, I went, but after my second round begged off and headed for a night of full sleep.
The next week was a hard one for me. I loved the island; I enjoyed being on it; but I longed to be on my way to Mary. At least I wanted to get some word to her and my family that I was safe. On the island I was caged and helpless.
I spent my days in quiet desperation. Hours I stood each day on the beach, searching past the thundering reef to the unbroken horizon. Every minute I hoped for a mast to appear.
To kill time and ease my mind, I strolled endlessly through the settlement, stopping in practically every hut.
I watched the women sitting in their lively social groups weaving intricate floor mats. I watched them beat out the masi of the mulberry tree for the decorative tapa cloth. I watched them weave baskets and fans from pandanus and palm leaves. I watched them prepare their foods, mother their children, make their homes.
The women have certain tasks about the village which they are more or less expected to do. However, in the easy life of nature, nothing is definitely the work of one sex or the other. They carry water, collect firewood, assist in preparing the native gardens and in their upkeep. They fish with throwing nets in the lagoons and dive for vasua, oysters, and uraus. They are the cooks, housekeepers, and family launderers. The Fijians are the cleanest native people I have ever seen. They bathe and wash clothes tirelessly. They keep tidy homes and grounds. Men and women are equally fastidious about their hair, keeping it combed out in a neat frizz.
The life of the Tuvutha native is essentially co-operative, though some of it is communal. The gardens, back in the jungle, are individually owned and planted. The heads of families and their sons work them mostly. When the natives dig their foods from the ground they replant shoots and roots immediately so there is an unending food supply in growth. The richness of the soil requires neither fertilizer, irrigation, nor plowing—merely weeding and simple planting. These jungle gardens yield lavishly.
Fruit groves, native trails, feasts, and the coconut thickets are communal properties. The chief is responsible for them. If they require attention he strolls through the village after dark calling off names and designating chores. And that’s that.
Housebuilding and repairs are done after the fashion of the logrolling bees back in Texas—the neighbors all pitch in. The same for boatbuilding.
The old and infirm are easily provided for by the great abundance. Sickness, if any, is herbally treated. A doctor would grow rusty on the island.
An average day of life at Lomaloma is something like this: everyone hits the deck soon after daylight. Nothing much is done till about eight o’clock when the women serve up breakfast. It is a simple repast: usually kumalas, fish, boiled bananas, crabs, and fresh fruit.
The women clean house, wash clothes, weave mats. The men sharpen spears or knives, repair the house or boat till about eleven; then they round up their sons and head into the bush for rations. They return around two, laden with baskets of fresh jungle produce carried on the ends of a pole swung across the shoulder.
A medium-sized meal is partaken of. The rest of the afternoon is frittered away—maybe with a short fishing expedition, or a nap, or a social call, or helping the neighbors. The inevitable bath is fitted in.
The evening meal, just at dusk, is the main course of the day. This is the heavy meal, although no Fiji meal is really heavy unless it might be for occasional pork or chicken. The dinner is more elaborately prepared and offers more variety than the earlier meals of the day.
The evenings are spent sitting in doorways, watching the children at play, or chatting with neighbors. About nine o’clock everybody yawns heavily, lanterns go out, and night sounds prevail.
In this atmosphere of balanced tempo I fretted away my days, strolling the beach, eyes on the horizon. My ears were constantly on the alert for the cry that would go up if a sail should be sighted. My mind was in Sydney with Mary. I wondered what she was thinking. Had the long letter I left at Post Office Bay, nearly four months before, been picked up? If so, had she received it?
Unknown to me she had received the letter in early October, postmarked August from Guayaquil. But all she knew was that I had sailed from the Galápagos the last of July, bound westward.
I had expected to arrive in Sydney aboard Pagan by the end of September—and here it was half through November. Six weeks overdue! Mary’s thoughts must have been very grim.
The morning of November 15 came around. Another day of anxiety was starting in its usual easy way; it was a good time for something to happen. It happened.
A sudden cry went up from the huts on the beach. In a moment it was resounding through the village. When I heard laca moto, I knew a sail was on the horizon. I hobbled toward the beach.
It was a sail all right—advancing down the coast. The craft was a motor schooner with an auxiliary sail, and she appeared to be footing it fast. Itchy and Mike began hauling the sail up and down while Bill and Joe lit the four fires and fanned them. Suvi and Tookai ran to and fro waving their fish nets. Una stood by implacable and still. A chorus of shouts went up. Everybody else was in motion.
Red flames broke from the stacks of tinder; blue smoke spiraled upward. Every eye was on the sail, which continued on imperturbably. Twenty minutes passed. The sail altered not a jot. I felt the same sinking feeling I had felt ten days before when we lost the other sail. More fuel was added to the fires.
The sail dropped suddenly out of sight. I knew it couldn’t have disappeared over the horizon so soon—I couldn’t figure it out. Then I realized that the boat had seen our signal, had dropped the auxiliary sail, and was coming to investigate. Her bow swelled into view, and suddenly I was jumping more wildly than all the rest.
A gang of us jumped on Itchy’s outrigger and paddled out to pilot the newcomer through the reef. I made her out to be the Lae, a copra schooner of forty-five feet. When we pulled alongside, I went immediately aboard. The captain, a gnarled old Fijian who had seen many years in the island trade, spoke no English. But the mate, a young Tongan, had a speaking acquaintanceship with it.
In slowly spoken words I explained my circumstances and asked him if he could take me off the island. He conferred with the old sea dog, and turned to me saying yes. He explained that the boat was owned by Stockwell, an island trader and copra merchant, from Vanuambalavu. They were out weighing copra and had two islands to visit before returning north.
The ancient schooner rattled its ponderous anchor onto the sandy bottom off Lomaloma. In the friendly manner of the Fijis, the captain, mate, and crew came off with me to stretch their legs.
I walked promptly up to the hut, escorted by Itchy, Bill, Joe, Mike, and Tupa, all looking glum. Una had preceded us long before and had knowingly packed my few belongings in a battered chest given me by Itchy. She stood shaking her head, telling me not to go. My battered old blue suit was hanging ready for me by the door. I took it, stepped inside, unwrapped my sulu, and with Itchy’s help slipped into the suit, my seedy white shirt, and a clean pair of socks. I walked back into the arena of drawn faces. There was nothing to do but say good-by and go quickly.
The next few minutes were the hardest of my life. How does one say good-by to the people who have saved his life and been the exemplars of kindness and generosity? What the natives saw was a simple handshake all round—but inside I was in a turmoil.
When I shook hands with Una she was still shaking her head and saying I wasn’t well enough to go. Everyone who had been so good to me was there. Itchy was looking down at his feet and so was Tupa. Bill, Joe, and Mike were standing apart. The pastor, the schoolteacher, and my wistful philosopher friend looked straight into my eyes and smiled brave smiles. Tookai and Suvi were looking downcast. The families of all stood close around, silent. I felt as though I were doing wrong by leaving, so I hurried.
I waved good-by and hopped into the dinghy. At the last minute Itchy jumped in, determined to stay to the last. An outrigger came out for him; more good-bys were said; more handshakes; and the anchor was dragged aboard. With the engine roaring and the old boat trembling, we made for the opening in the reef. Itchy’s outrigger followed us to the open sea. That was the last I saw of Lomaloma.