CHAPTER 42
The Outer Fijian islands called the Yasawa Group make one forget any hardships of cruising. We anchored close ashore to a village called Yalobi, on the small island of Waya. Same story: picture perfect swaying palms, white sandy beaches, patches of coral brimming with colorful parrot fish, and jagged volcanic mountains jutting to God behind the village. Bulah-shouting village officials greeted us with fists pumping the air. Denise wrote home:
All the islands in Fiji have one guy who is chief and absolute boss. We must offer him a gift to go ashore, often a few stalks of this awful kava root someone grinds into a nauseating drink they think is delicious. Sometimes we have to drink it with them, which isn’t fun. It makes my mouth numb, fries your brain and slows you down like a handful of tranquilizers. It’s strong and awful, looks like muddy water. Anyway, if the chief likes our present, and he always does, then we are free to roam around his village.
Mike & Skip prepare Kava for the Chief
Strolling to the end of the path at Yalobi we met Mere (Mary), a multi-tasking woman of middle age, sweeping dust from the entrance to her burr (house) while stirring a massive kettle over an open fire. Mere was engaging. She invited us to stay for dinner with her and her six runny-nosed children. We said OK. Mere batted her eyes and smiled coyly, focusing her attention on Mike. At about five foot ten, thin and muscular, horny Mike was an attractive alternative to the massive Fijian men, under the wings of whom Mere had grown up. Besides, Mike’s bald spot was a magnet to Mere. She liked to kiss it.
Denise, Skip, Mike, Mere and her six kids
Over dinner and kava, Mere explained her recent separation from her husband, who had moved to another village for work. She was happy we had come to visit. She didn’t enjoy being a single mom, and seriously wanted Mike to come back that evening to “make a new baby with me.” We teased Mike unmercifully—even throwing a celebratory bachelor party for him in the cockpit. Mike blissfully went from kava to scotch, telling us, as he became more plastered, he would rename the island “Mulhollandland,” when he became chief. Shortly thereafter he passed out.
At sunrise we noticed frenzied activity along the beach. Two pigs were roasting on spits, the heady aroma already tantalizing. Tables were set, flowers were everywhere, children frolicked and it appeared there would be a beachfront parade. We found today was the one-hundred-day death celebration for an elderly lady, whose body rested in a tree house visible from Endymion. She was wrapped in a ceremonial shroud, perhaps more for odor control than anything else. Today, as custom required at the one-hundred-day mark, her body would be paraded through the village and publicly cremated in a traditional fiery ritual. The soul is set free during this joyful event. Close to the crack of 10:00 a.m., Mike, burdened with a sledgehammer hangover, and still somewhat laced, rose slowly. Larry, Denise, and I faced him, looking unusually concerned.
“What are you going to do about this?” asked Larry, pointing to the festivities ashore.
“You must have had one whopper of a tanking to bring this on,” added Denise.
Mike, in a mental fog, looked toward shore with a puzzled expression. It was my turn: “Mike, apparently you visited ol’ Mere last night. You proposed to her! She accepted. This beach extravaganza is for your wedding, Mike—you and Mere are getting hitched!”
Denise chimed in: “Mike, see that big tree up the hill there, at about three o’clock, the one with the platform?”
“Yeah?”
“Well,” continued Denise, “the Chief said the dead lady that’s been roosting up there for a few months is gone now. That’s your honeymoon house! The Chief gave it to you and Mere. He paddled out last night to tell us.”
Larry’s turn: “They are so pleased, Mike, that you took a poor woman like Mere, with all her bumbling kids, and are making an honest woman of her. And you’re a white guy to boot. There’s already talk about you holding a village office.”
We poured it on. Larry told Mike the huge Fijian guy cutting bamboo with the machete was Mere’s cousin. He will personally be looking after Mike.
Mike thought we were joking at first. Then, he wasn’t so certain, saying, “There is no way damn way I’m going ashore.”
We told him it was OK, we could bring Mere to him, we understood being a bridegroom made him nervous.
In the end it was Mere who spared Mike. Coming aboard she told Mike she had made a sad but wise decision. It would be OK for Mike to return to America if she could, instead of Mike, have a bottle of Captain Morgan rum and pack of cigarettes.
Done deal!