Remarkable Fulaga
08 July 2017
Fulaga; what a remarkable place.
We have just spent our first week on this remote island in the Lau Group east of Fiji. The Marquesas claimed they were the most remote islands in the world but they really need to take a visit out here. No 4WD vehicles, in fact, the only wheeled vehicle we saw was a lashed together bogey cum wheel chair.
Fulaga is a bit like sailing from Greenock to a west coast Scottish island in the 1930's. They have nothing here and the supply boat only comes once a month. Their only contact with the outside world is the visiting yotties, or voyageurs. We were boat no 32 this year, in 2011 they had 100. So for the price of $50 and a bundle of kava root we are allocated a host family, invited along with the other 10 boats in the lagoon to a $10 (£2 per head) pig roast picnic on the beach. The pig was shuttled by dinghy in a woven palm leaf basket, actually, it was the second pig, as an hour earlier after the second choice piggy had breathed a big sigh of relief when his buddy was stuffed in the basket, being told, "we're all going for a picnic", SHE was returned, a few months pregnant to the pen and poor Mr Piggy went for a dinghy ride.
A last squeal and its prep time. Burning palm leaves and some scraping do a nice exfoliation job, his hair scraped off then expertly butchered into bite size pieces then wrapped in coconut leaves and place in the pre-prepared Jamie Oliver type oven; hot coals dug in a pit on the beach, then covered with more hot stones and layers of coconut leaves, a few old blankets, and oddly, the fabric from a golf umbrella. I'm not sure if that's critical to the cooking process or if its just in case it rains. Finally, a thick layer of sand is spread on top. Basically, Gas Mark 6 for 3 hours. The root veg, all smothered in coconut milk, are cooked the same way are in a separate lomo pit.
The islands are an alcohol free zone however, the "Playsticks", Kava roots, previously blogged, is the intoxicant of choice. It's an interesting if wholly disgusting process. First, the roots are pounded into powder, in our case use a hammer battering the root against the flat blade of an axe. After a few bashes, the crushed root needs scraped of into a pile.....a full fist, four fingernail scrape....and you can't help hoping he's not a nose picker.
Once a sufficient pile has been collected it's put into a well used cloth bag (and you're now desparately hoping its not an old pair of underpants and repeatedly washed and squeezed out into the ceremonial Kava bowl. It really is just like washing out your old pants. When the chief processer gets up half way through the washing and squeezing process and goes into the bush for a pee, again you're praying he'll wash his hands. As I've said previously, we're not that great travelers.
The resulting dirty water is then collected in a communal half coconut shell and passed to the first victim who has to clap three times, knock it back in one (why would you want to slowly sip it?) and cry "Booolaaa".
Anne took only one cup but I had the more or less mandatory 3 cups and felt nothing, it's supposed to be mildly narcotic but nothing doing for me. I guess years of alcohol has its benefits and hopefully the previous nights will kill any of the bugs swimming around in this murky soup.
Next day we were expected to attend church and so, togged up in my best newly purchased Sula, a wrap around skirt which all the men wear, we trotted off up the track to the village. I have to admit I'm not a regular church goer but, in fifty years, for me, it hasn't improved much. However, last time I went, at least there was entertainment.
When I was a kid, I spent my summers in a lovely little Clyde hamlet called Portencross. Every Sunday, we ( Peter and Gordon; the Twins, and I were thrust into the Mini and Mr & Mrs Wright would drive us to church. Now, Peter and Gordon had a bit of a mischievous reputation so they were positioned at either end of the our wee party, separated by both distance and the quick clip on the ear by Mum and Dad Wright. The highlight of these services was when Peter and Gordon would at undeclared intervals, send a Matchbox car, at speed, whistling along the prayer book shelf to each other. The vicar's droning would be interrupted by two near simultaneous smacks as the poor parents each made a grab for the passing car, failing on every attempt. We could have done the some race car action at last Sunday's service. It would have brightened things up a bit.
Afterwards, we joined our host family in their tin two room corrugated tin house for lunch. No furniture, sit on the coconut mats on the floor. I was reminded of the TV documentary Long Way Round when the two bikers are faced with a bowl of fresh "Prairie Oysters" (look it up) and I just know something we're not comfortable with is in one of the huge aluminium pots. First up, "Tarah!!!". A giant bucket of baby clams. I knew it.
Cooked of course in coconut milk the children pounced on these and ate huge platefuls. They were ok and Anne ate enough to be polite. I managed a good bucket load. Quite nice actually. All served with a green veg from the tree outside mixed with fish and coconut milk and then a lovely white fish with paw paw in, you've guessed it, coconut milk. We did have plates to eat from but they all ate with their fingers, we had the only 2 spoons. And we got to bring the left overs back to the boat.
Our generosity knowing no bounds we gave the family some T-shirts so my red Etive 2010 T-shirt and Big Dog kayak shirt will have a new life here along with some black L'Oreal ones we have carried for years. We could have an empty boat by the end of this trip , these people have nothing. Interestingly it is just the young and the old here. The kids go to Suva at 14 for high school and never come back 'till they retire!! The small children get sent back from Suva to be raised by the grandparents until they are old enough to leave. A few stay, one of our hosts grandsons is 16 and has refused to leave so at least the oldies will have some strong young men to chop the firewood, there is only one gas oven in the village!!
What do they gain from our visit??? A link with the outside world and the opportunity to speak English, the language they need to get on in that outside world. And a few T-shirts and chocolate cake of course.
Remarkable people. They have little and ask for nothing but would give you the shirt off their back.