“Bula!”
The greeting reaches us before the person does. As we enter the village of Muana-i-cake, a middle-aged woman in a blue jumper steps out of her corrugated iron hut to meet us. She says her name is Bai (pronounced “Bye”).
Living at the edge of the village, she has clearly been through this plenty of times before. She cheerfully asks where we’re from and whether we’ve come for sevusevu. Her smile is infectious, and after a bit of friendly banter about bananas and pig slop, she walks us over to a serious-looking man named Bale (pronounced “Bah-Lay”), who is standing outside a blue tin-clad hut.
“Bula,” he says, then silently leads us toward the center of the village. After exchanging a few Fijian words with another man, Bale says we’ll be having sevusevu at the chief’s home.
The hut we arrive at is a yellow oval structure, and outside sits a crude, handmade concrete throne.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
“That’s where new chiefs get anointed,” Bale explains.
Interesting, I muse. During all of our village visits, we’ve never seen this.
We slip off our shoes, enter the hut, and settle onto the floor, as we’ve done several times before. A large man with a serious expression emerges from behind a red floral curtain, and Bale introduces him as Chief Simon.
“Bula,” the chief says, joining our circle. “Thank you for coming for sevusevu.”
For context, the custom that opens every visit to a Fijian village, sevusevu, involves offering a gift of kava to the chief to ask permission to be there. Some ceremonies are long and formal, rich with Fijian prayers. This one, however, is quick and straightforward. We present our kava, and the chief accepts it immediately.
And just like that, we are no longer strangers who dropped anchor in the bay a few hours earlier. We are part of the 60-resident community.
The chief tells us we’re the 176th yacht to visit this year—about four a week—which surprises me given how remote Fulaga is. He then explains that in this village, every guest is assigned a host family, and glances at Bale, who announces that his family will adopt us.
The chief asks us a few questions, but after several moments of awkward silence, we realize he is not one for small talk. Before we leave, he asks us to sign the yacht log and pay an anchorage fee, as is customary in Fiji’s outer islands. We happily comply.
On the way out, I compliment the chief on one of the few pieces of furniture in the room: a legless chair. It offers a chiefly stance within a culture that embraces sitting on the floor. He smiles and thanks me.
We thank the chief in return, then step back outside, ready to explore the village.
A Village of Artisans
It’s late in the day, but Bale asks if we would like to visit the woodcarving sheds. This doesn’t surprise us, as we’d learned that Fulaga is the backbone of Fiji’s woodcarving industry. In fact, what tourists find at the markets in Suva, Labasa, Lautoka, and Savusavu is most likely made in Fulaga, so buying a carving here is as authentic as it gets.
At the first shed, we sit on a crude wooden bench as a man with silver hair and bloodshot eyes lays out several wooden items on a bedsheet on the ground in front of him.
He then demonstrates how to use the weapons and describes each piece. Fiji’s history of cannibalism is always a bit of a touchy subject. Some Fijians embrace it; others seem embarrassed.
“Pick one up,” he urges, gesturing to the bowls, figurines, and weapons in front of us. We lift up a few bowls and admire the craftsmanship.
After watching the presentation, we say we will take photos of the items and discuss them over dinner.
Bale then takes us to the second wood carving shed, where we meet a woman named Qele. We browse a new selection of wood carvings and, once again, say we will think about them.
The women of the village are artisans in their own right: they are mat weavers.
With the sun setting, it is time to leave, so Bale suggests we return the next day for a more proper tour of the village, including its school. First, however, he takes us to his hut to meet the rest of our host family: his wife, Lani, and three daughters, Lesu, Siana, and Emily. It is a gracious welcome.
While there, we notice the rough beginnings of some wooden bowls arranged in a tidy grouping on the floor. Bale explains that like many of the men in the village, he also does woodcarving.
After getting entered into the yacht log, we say goodbye and head down the path back toward the dinghy beach. Unanimously, my husband, Roy, my brother-in-law, Steve, and I all agree that the finished woodcarvings we saw looked far too perfect to have been handmade here.
“They’re probably from China,” Roy remarks.
Children, Bones, Views, and Enormous Mats
The next afternoon, we return to the village and go directly to the school since it is already late in the day. After meeting the headmaster, we visit the various classrooms—kindergarten, first and second, third and fourth, fifth and sixth, and seventh and eighth. We learn that the school serves 45 students, 17 of whom live in the other two Fulagan villages. Interestingly, the second two rooms we pass are filled with hammocks.
“What are those for?” I ask the teacher beside me.
“The boarding students from the two other villages sleep here during the week,” she explains. “Each of the parents takes turns staying here and preparing meals for them.”
As we enter each classroom, the students smile broadly. Some giggle.
After strolling around the school, we head to Bale’s hut to ask for a tour of the Cave of Bones and the site of the original village.
“Yes, I can take you there,” he says, setting down the bowl he is carving and grabbing a pair of worn red tennis shoes. Before we head out, we notice the progress he has made on the bowls. They are stunning.
“Can you make a small one for me?” I ask. After discussing some options, he promises to have it ready the next day.
Bale then leads us up a slippery hill to the first stop, the cave. The path to the cave runs through a dense forest, and the entrance is small and easy to miss. Inside sits a pile of bones.
“Who were these people?” I ask.
“We don’t know,” Bale answers. “Maybe Fijians, maybe Tongans. They’re very old—from the cannibal times.”
Cave burials were once widespread in Fiji. Sometimes villagers hid the bones to prevent enemy tribes from scavenging them. Other times, the bones belonged to unfortunate souls who were in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Our group kneels quietly in the dim cave, aware that we are visitors in a place that holds a great deal of history we don’t fully understand.
After inspecting some skulls, we go back to the path and climb toward the old village site. At the top, there are no buildings, but we are rewarded with spectacular views of the bay. We all agree that it is definitely worth the climb.
After soaking in the two sites, we descend the hill and return to Bale’s hut.
“Would you like to see some mat weaving?” Lani asks.
“Absolutely!” I exclaim.
We go next door, and there we find the village women sitting in a circle on the floor. Some are straightening leaves using seashells and spoons; others are weaving.
Apparently, every Tuesday, the village women gather in the community center to weave. I suddenly feel quite lucky to be here on a Tuesday.
These gigantic mats (known in Fiji as Ibe) are given as gifts to other villages and are sold at the large markets alongside the wood carvings.
I watch, take pictures, and ask more questions than I probably should. Lani notices.
“Would you like me to make one for you?” she asks.
“A small one would be amazing!” I exclaim.
She starts weaving one that day, promising to finish it overnight.
A Smaller Village and an Even Tinier Shop
Back at the family’s hut, I ask, “Can we shop at the village store?”
At this, Lani scurries outside and looks down the center of the village to see if the shop is open.
“They’re closed,” she announces. “They should reopen at 4 o’clock.”
Just then, we notice the students at the school lining up for dismissal. They wave enthusiastically and shout “Bula!” as they pass by.
As it turns out, we are headed the same direction as them—toward the other village, Muanaira—since we now have some time to kill. We walk alongside them and answer a myriad of questions, which fly at us in rapid succession.
The students tell us that when there’s no food at the school, they return home to their villages.
They are transported via a boat moored at the far end of Muanaira.
The second village is much like the first, just a bit smaller. We stroll around a bit and snap some photos before heading back.
Before returning to our boat, though, we stop at the village shop. As anticipated, it is tiny.
There, we browse the shelf-stable selection and buy a few staples. As we pay for our groceries, we are amused to find that, instead of a cash register, a cookie tin holds the change. Every item is meticulously noted in a ledger book.
Reluctant Farewells
The next day, we return to collect my new mat and bowl.
As promised, they’re ready. And they’re lovely.
Lani presents the mat without fanfare, but I see something I hadn’t even asked for: a red fringe. It seems she noticed that I wore red every time I visited the village. It’s one of the most thoughtful gifts I’ve ever received.
Bale’s woodcarving is equally beautiful.
As we prepare to leave, we reluctantly say goodbye to our hosts. Some destinations are relatively easy to leave; this place isn’t one of them. You can’t truly understand the beauty of its authenticity unless you experience it.
At the risk of being hyperbolic, I daresay it’s why we travel.
Fulaga gets a lot of attention for the odd mushroom islands that dot its bays and for the wind sports its geography allows. While there, our crew wingfoils, kayaks, and explores the sand spits. But nothing compares to the gift of the raw cultural experience we receive.
There’s no regular transportation to the remote islands of Fulaga; the only people who see them are sailors and a few lucky cruisers who choose to explore its shores. I’m grateful that we did.
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