CHAPTER V.
LEVUKA—THE HARBOUR—CORAL-REEF—CHURCHES—ANIMAL LIFE—PLANTS—HOW TO BREW YANGONA—PICNICS—SPEAR-THROWING.
WITH MRS HAVELOCK, LEVUKA, _Saturday, October 2, 1875_.
DEAR NELL,—I cannot say how I long to have you here to share the delight of sitting on this high headland overlooking the lovely sea. The air is balmy, and we almost always have a faint delicious breeze (sometimes it is anything but faint!) From this tiny garden we look down through a veil of glittering palm-leaves, brightened by a foreground of rosy oleanders, and vivid scarlet hybiscus; and between these glimmer the blue waters of the Pacific, and dreamy isles which seem to float on the horizon. I think, on a clear day, we can count eight or ten of these.
Just below us lies the harbour, like a calm sea-lake, on which ride vessels of all sizes: trading schooners and brigs, which carry the produce of the isles to Australia and New Zealand. Larger vessels trade with Germany. Then there is an occasional man-of-war or merchant steamer, and always native canoes passing to and fro, with great three-cornered yellow mat sails, and brown men, who often sing quaint _mékés_ as they approach the town, with an odd sort of accompaniment on their _lali_, or wooden drum. The chiefs’ canoes carry a flag, and sometimes a fringe of streamers of native cloth floating from the sail; and the canoe itself is adorned at both ends with glistening white shells like poached eggs (_Cyprea oviformis_). Sometimes several canoes pass us racing, or they meet, and their sails at different angles form pretty groups. How striking a scene it must have been, when, in the old days, the chiefs sailed forth to war at the head of a large fleet of these! On one such occasion, when Thakombau went to attack Verata, he mustered a hundred and twenty-nine canoes. Only think how bravely they must have flown before the breeze, with the golden sunlight on the yellow sails! These canoes are balanced by large outriggers—that is, a beam of wood, or piece of cocoa-palm stem, floating alongside, and attached to the canoe by bamboos. They are most picturesque, and the great mat sails, seen against the intense blue of the water, are a valuable addition to the scene. Indeed the eye that loves exquisite colour can never weary here.
The rich blue of the harbour is separated from the purplish indigo of the great ocean by a submarine rainbow of indescribable loveliness. This is caused by the coral-reef, which produces a gleaming ray as if from a hidden prism. The patches of coral, sea-weed, and sometimes white sand, lying at irregular depths, beneath a shallow covering of the most crystalline emerald-green water, produce every shade of aqua marine, mauve, sienna, and orange, all marvellously blended. The shades are continually varying with the ebb and flow of the tide, which at high water covers the reef to the depth of several feet, while at low tide patches here and there stand high and dry, or are covered by only a few inches of water; treacherous ground, however, on which to land, as the sharp coral spikes break under the feet, cutting the thickest leather, and perhaps landing you in a hole several feet in depth, with still sharper coral down below. The highest edge of the reef lies towards the ocean, and a line of dazzling white surf marks where the great green breakers wage their ceaseless warfare on the barrier; but the passage through the reef is plainly marked by a break in the white line, and a broad roadway of deep blue connecting the inner waters with the great deep; and this, again, passes in gradual gradations of colour, from the intense blue of the harbour to the glittering green of the shallow water on the inner side of the reef. Altogether it is most fascinating. The scene is loveliest at noon, when the sun is right overhead, and lights up the colours beneath the water on the coral caves. Also you must be some way up the hill to get a good view of the reef. Of the radiant opal tints which overspread sea, isles, and sky, at the outgoings of morning and evening, I need not tell you; our own northern shores supply sunrise and sunset colours more vivid than we often see in the tropics.
This afternoon has been one of unmitigated enjoyment spent on the reef, where for so many days I have enviously watched the Fijian girls disporting themselves at low tide, and bringing back baskets full of all sort of curious fish, many of them literally rainbow-coloured. Some are most gorgeous, and are called parrot-fish. They have large bony beaks, rather than ordinary mouths, to enable them to feed on the coral, which at certain seasons are said to be “in flower,” and very unwholesome; so we always eat these radiant fish with some qualms, and not without good reason, for some people have had the ill-luck to get poisoned, and have suffered severely in consequence.
Our great authority on all questions of natural history is Mr Layard (brother of Nineveh Layard), who, before annexation, held the office of British Consul in this place. He and his son have a special talent for capturing strange monsters of the deep, and I never call on Mrs Layard without her showing me some new object of interest. They live in a large old wooden house, built on the very edge of the water; in fact, the sea washes up underneath the verandah, which opens on to a long wooden pier in the last stages of decay. I should think the position most unsafe, in view of possible tidal waves, especially as a small mountain stream (which occasionally becomes a torrent) washes one side of the house,—so that from one window the inmates can have fresh-water fishing, and from the other salt. That old pier has been a source of infinite pleasure to many. It enables Mrs Layard to have a little fresh air, and a small walk, without venturing among the broken bottles and mud which form the beach; and her husband and son thence capture many strange creatures when they have not time to row off to the reef, which is, of course, the very ideal of a naturalist’s happy hunting-grounds, and there they took me this afternoon. You really cannot imagine anything more lovely than it was. The first essential is to go in a boat which draws very little water, and which has no new paint to be considered. Then when the tide is low, and the sea without a ripple, you float idly over the coral-beds, suffering your boat to lie at rest or drift with the current, as a stroke of the oars would disturb the clear surface of the water, beneath which lie such inexhaustible stores of loveliness. Every sort and kind of coral grow together there, from the outstretched branches, which look like garden shrubs, to the great tables of solid coral, on which lie strewn shells and sponges, and heaps of brain and mushroom corals.
These living shrubs assume every shade of colour: some are delicate pink or blue; others of a brilliant mauve; some pale primrose. But vain is the attempt to carry home these beautiful flowers of the sea; their colour is their life. It is, in fact, simply a gelatinous slime, which drips away, as the living creatures melt away and die, when exposed to the upper air. So the corals we know in England are merely skeletons, and very poor substitutes for the lovely objects we see and covet in their native condition.
Besides, like everything in that submarine garden, much of its charm is derived from the medium through which we behold it—the clear translucent water, which spreads a glamour of enchantment over objects already beautiful, glorifying the scarlet corallines and the waving branches of green and brown weed, wherein play exquisite fish of all vivid hues and sizes, from the tiniest gem-like atoms which flash in the light like sapphires and rubies, to the great big-headed parrot-fish, which has strong white teeth specially adapted for crunching the coral, and thence extracting the insects on which he feeds.
There are great red fish, and purple-green fish, and some of bright gold, with bars or spots of black; but loveliest of all are the shoals of minute fish, some of the most vivid green, others of a blue that is quite dazzling. Some have markings so brilliant that I can only compare them to peacocks’ feathers. These all congregate in families, and a happy life they surely must have. Some of the loveliest of these are so tiny that you can keep a dozen in a tumbler; others are about the length of your finger. Only think what a prize they would be if we could convey them safely to the great aquariums of Britain! Besides these myriads of minute fish, there are all manner of living creatures which peep out from their homes beneath the ledges and crevices of the coral,—vigilant crabs of all sizes and colours, and sea-anemones in endless variety, and wonderful specimens of Echini.
Picture to yourself first cousins of the fragile sea-eggs which used to rejoice our childhood, and make us marvel how they ever came ashore unbroken. These Fijian relations are armed with spikes like slate-pencils, nearly as thick as your middle finger, and a good deal longer. I think Mr Layard said their name is Acrocladia. To-day we captured a most extraordinary creature, a star-fish, which seemed as if it must be nearly related to the sea-urchin, for its fifteen arms were each covered with grey and orange spines, very sharp, precisely like those of the echinus, while the under side was a mass of pale-yellow fleshy feelers, like those of a sea-anemone, with a sucker at the end of each. It was a strange and most interesting creature when we first beheld it, but looked very unhappy when it found itself in a bucket; and when reduced to “a specimen,” it will be a poor ugly object.[7]
We saw a great number of large star-fish, of the deepest Albert blue, and innumerable other beautiful things, which gained greatly in interest from being shown to me by one so familiar with them all as is Mr Layard. How you would delight in such an afternoon as this has been, and how the boys would revel in it! It is not altogether pleasant, however, to try walking on the reef, and you generally have to get natives to dive for anything particularly good. They never seem afraid of the many sharp teeth and stinging creatures which may dart out from the coral; and not being troubled by over-much raiment, they dive in and out like fishes (though, as a general rule, they do dislike wetting their hair). To them the reef is a source of endless amusement and profit, and at low tide there are generally some canoes lying in the shallow water; while the girls and young men are hunting for the spoils of the sea, which they carry in three-cornered baskets, slung from the waist. Of course they do not care to spoil their simple raiment with salt water, so a considerable portion of their dress on these occasions consists of deep fringes and garlands of many-coloured leaves, which are a most becoming drapery, with their rich brown skin and tawny head.
The existence of these barrier-reefs is an unspeakable benefit to the isles, supplying them with natural breakwaters and harbours, surrounding each with a lagoon of calm, shallow water, on which the smallest boats can ply as safely as on an inland lake, and within shelter of which they can, in most places, pass from one isle to another. There is invariably a passage through the reef opposite the mouth of any river, as the coral insect cannot live within the influence of fresh water. Thus an entrance is secured to the haven of rest, and a very strait and narrow way it often is, and one which calls for careful steering, when the angry breakers are dashing in mad fury on the reef on either side—great rolling waves curling upward in a succession of mighty walls of green water, and falling in such a surging cataract of foam as would make short work of the luckless canoe that should drift within their reach. Once inside the reef all is secure, save when some unusual storm troubles even these calm waters, as it might ruffle the surface of any lake.
It is hard to realise that these mighty sea-walls are indeed the work of microscopic insects,—star-like creatures, invisible to the naked eye; but so it is. It is said they cannot live at a greater depth than thirty fathoms, yet the height of the coral-wall is in many cases double or treble this measurement, and in some cases a sheer descent of two hundred fathoms has been found. The inference is, that many of these isles, as well as the ocean-bed from which the coral rises, are gradually subsiding, and the insects are continually working upwards. In some cases the island has altogether disappeared, and there remains only a circular or crescent shaped reef, perhaps fringed with cocoa-palms, encircling a calm lagoon of clear green water, the sea all round being of the deepest blue. These are called _atolls_, and are sometimes many miles in circumference. Some scarcely rise above the water-level, and only a ring of white coral sand betrays their existence.
The coral-reef gives us various hints of the rise and fall in the level of the ocean-bed, for while some islands have wholly disappeared, others are even now emerging from the waters. In some groups coral-cliffs have been found forty feet above the water-level—in other words, above the height where the insect could live, thus showing clearly that these rocks have been gradually upheaved. But in the Fijian group there are few islands which are not almost encircled by a barrier-reef of considerable depth, which would seem to indicate that they are actually subsiding. However, the process is likely to be a slow one, and a matter of no great moment to the present generation, or their successors for many years to come.
I have spun a longer yarn than I intended, but it will help you to realise the sort of things that I am daily looking at, and will make the boys wish they were with me.
* * * * *
_Monday, 4th October._
DEAR JEAN,— ... I have just come in from such a scramble. Certainly those hills of Ovalau are most tantalising. From the sea they do look so attractive, and not particularly difficult to ascend; but when it comes to the attempt, you find that even in the rare instances where the semblance of a footpath exists, it takes a very good scrambler to follow it, over great boulders of rock, or up almost perpendicular banks of soapy mud. Should you attempt to leave the path, you find it almost impossible to force a passage through the dense underwood; and even the tracks, which from the sea look like grass, turn out to be tall reeds, reaching far above your head, and matted together with strong vines (which totally prevent your advance), and large spiders’ webs, which cling to your face and hair. Still, it is worth a considerable exertion, for the reward of at length reaching some point whence you can look down on the lovely sea and all the far-away isles.
This island is itself quite beautiful, though by no means a desirable one on which to establish a capital, as it consists entirely of very steep hills, rising to a height of about 3000 feet, crowned with great crags, and rent by deep gorges densely wooded. The only available building land is a narrow strip on the edge of the sea; and though, of course, the lower spurs of the hills may gradually be dotted with villas, there is no possibility of extending the town unless by expensive terracing—a game which would certainly not be worth the candle, as saith the proverb.
I must say the little town greatly exceeds our expectations. We had imagined it was still the haunt of uproarious planters and white men of the lowest type, described by visitors a few years ago, instead of which we find a most orderly and respectable community, of about 600 whites, inhabiting 180 wooden houses. We are told that the reformation in the sobriety of the town is partly due to the Good Templars, who here muster a very considerable brotherhood. Doubtless their work is greatly facilitated by the increased price of gin, which in former days flowed like water, at the modest price of one shilling a bottle, but has now risen to five times that sum. It used to be said that ships needed no chart to bring them to Fiji, for they would find the way marked by floating gin-bottles, increasing in numbers as they approached the group. Those were the days when men meeting at noonday to discuss grave matters of business found their deliberations assisted by a jug of raw gin, to be drunk in tumblers as other men would drink water! Certainly if the multitude of broken bottles which strew the beach were any evidence of the amount of liquor consumed, we might imagine that the old drinking days were not yet wholly forgotten.
The principal shops (or stores, as they are called) lie along the beach, and, without much outward show, are fully stocked with all things needful, which a European can buy at about one-third more than he would pay in England. But by a singular phase of commercial morality, a native wishing to purchase the same article is invariably made to pay a very much higher price, and this is done quite openly, as a generally accepted condition of trade! There are several respectable boarding-houses, and two or three hotels, where the planters find quarters when they come to this great metropolis.
I am rather afraid you will not have a very dignified idea of our capital, when I confess that our great main street has only houses on one side, and the street itself is only a strip of rocky, muddy, or shingly sea-beach. Various attempts have been made to build up a low sea-wall, but this is invariably washed away by the next high tide. How the houses escape is a mystery.
One thing that would strike you as peculiar would be to see a whole town without one chimney. There is a house which apparently has a couple, but these are only ventilators. You would also be impressed by our magnificent lighthouses—two wooden pyramids, which, seen at a certain angle to one another, mark the passage through the coral-reef. These are, I think, the only representatives of lighthouses in this most dangerous group. But at present the colony is too poor to build any, and Mother England is too stingy to allow us any.
But whatever else is lacking, churches flourish. Besides the Wesleyan native chapels, there are a large Wesleyan church for the white population, a Roman Catholic church, and an Episcopal one. We, of course, belong to the latter; but at present our parson, Mr Floyd, is in New Zealand, so all the Governor’s staff take it by turns to officiate, two in the morning and two in the evening. They appear in surplices, and take their part well. Last Sunday morning Mr Le Hunte read prayers, and Captain Havelock one of Robertson’s sermons. Yesterday morning Captain Havelock read prayers, and Mr Maudslay preached a Kingsley. In the evening Mr Eyre read, and Mr Le Hunte preached; but I forget his subject, for such a tremendous storm of rain came down on the zinc roof that even his voice was drowned. After services we waited in vain for half an hour, and then waded home, fully a mile. Nurse and Mrs Abbey very sensibly left their dresses and bonnets in church!
Mr Floyd has one of Bishop Patteson’s native clergy to assist him in a mission to the foreign labour, the Church of England most wisely judging it best to leave the Fijians wholly in the care of the Wesleyans, whose mission here has been so marvellously successful. But the foreign labour does seem almost a hopeless field. They are brought here from a multitude of isles, all talking different languages, and only remain three years in the group, so that the very small numbers that can be reached, even of those who find situations in Levuka, can scarcely be expected to learn much before they have to be sent back to their own isles as “time-expired labour.” Still, the little church does fill in the afternoons with a strangely motley congregation, and doubtless some seeds of good are carried back to the distant isles, which may bear fruit in due season.[8]
There is yet another congregation which I have forgotten to mention—namely, our fellow-passengers, the company of Royal Engineers, who, finding the little English church already crowded, hold service by themselves in a thatched shed on the shore, open all round to admit the sweet sea-breeze, and overshadowed by large dark trees. It makes a very cool chapel, and we often linger as we pass to listen to the pleasant English voices and hearty singing.
As I mentioned to you before, no preparation had been made to receive the Engineers on their arrival here, so they had to find temporary quarters for themselves till they could decide where to place their barracks, and then build them. It was no easy matter to find healthy quarters for so large a body of men in such a place, and Colonel Pratt was at first somewhat perplexed. By great good fortune a large empty storehouse was found half-way between Nasova and the town, so there they are housed for the present, and make the best of very uncomfortable quarters. They do look so hot, poor fellows, going about in uniform, with small caps, under just such a sun as that which makes men in India wear solah _topees_ and carry white umbrellas. Here (where the inhabitants take their ideas from Australia or New Zealand) such precautions are considered as unnecessary, as are all the luxuries which others, coming from India or kindred lands, would deem necessaries. The Engineers, however, have sun-helmets somewhere, but they are supposed to have gone on a little voyage by themselves to Melbourne, and are expected to arrive in the course of a few months! Colonel Pratt had considerable difficulty in getting either cool clothes or mosquito-nets for his men. The authorities could not understand why he should require them; and when he suggested that it was usual to supply such articles to troops on tropical service, the reply he received was—“Why, you don’t mean to say that Fiji is in the tropics?” That it is so we are all very well aware, but I think this is the best tropical climate any of us have yet found; there are few days when we have not a balmy breeze and soft grey clouds, and even the midsummer heat of December rarely shows a thermometer above 90°. I cannot find out that there is any especially rainy season, or any which is exempt from rain. Heavy thunderstorms are frequent at present, and I am told that about Christmas there is often much rain and an occasional hurricane. The latter, however, only happens once in several years; so you need not be in any special alarm for the safety of your dearly beloved sister,
C. F. G. C.
* * * * *
In one respect we are greatly disappointed in this place—_there are scarcely any flowers_. This strikes us all the more, as we have come here direct from Australia, where we left the whole country literally aflame with blossom. You cannot fancy anything more lovely. And here in the tropics, where people always vainly imagine that flowers are so abundant, we have fewer than in any place I have yet been to. Scarcely any house has even a flower-bed round the windows; and the very best garden in the place would, except for the beauty of its crotons and other shrubs, scarcely be dignified with the name in England; and yet infinite care is expended on it, and a handful of roses or other blossoms of any sort is the greatest boon its owner can bestow on us. As to wild flowers, I have walked day after day till I was weary, without finding as many flowers as would fill a small vase.
The ferns, however, are exceedingly lovely. Innumerable species grow in richest profusion in every damp ravine, and great tufts of birds’-nest and other ferns cling to the mossy boughs of the grey old trees. Every here and there you come on a rocky stream or shady pool round which they cluster in such luxuriance and variety, that it makes you long to transport the whole fairy-like dell to some place where all fern lovers might revel in its beauty. And this is only the undergrowth; for the cool shade overhead is produced by the interwoven fronds of great tree-ferns—their exquisite crown of green supported by a slender stem from twenty to thirty feet high, up which twine delicate creepers of all sorts, which steal in and out among the great fronds, and so weave a canopy of exquisite beauty. Loveliest of all are the delicate climbing-ferns, the tender leaves of which—some richly _fringed_ with seed—hang mid-air on long hair-like trails, or else, drooping in festoons, climb from tree to tree, forming a perfect network of loveliness. It is a most fairy-like foliage, and the people show their reverence for its beauty by calling it the _Wa Kolo_, or God’s fern.
I ought to mention that though there are no flowers within reach, there are several flowering trees with unattainable, and, happily, not very tempting blossoms. They are all alike remarkable for having a most insignificant calyx, and being almost entirely composed of a great bunch of silky stamens which fall in showers on the ground below. The most attractive of these is the _kaveeka_, or Malay apple, which bears tufts of crimson blossom especially attractive to certain lovely scarlet and green parrots with purple heads, and which in due season bears a very juicy though insipid crimson or white fruit. These parrots are few and far between; and I miss the flocks of bright wings which so delighted me in my glimpse of Australian bush.—Good-bye once more.
* * * * *
_Sunday, 31st October._
DEAR EISA,—The anxiously expected mail came in this morning and brought your welcome letter.... I am still staying with Mrs Havelock, for the new rooms at Nasova progress slowly. It is very difficult to push on work in a country where _malua_ (by-and-by) is the reigning principle in every action of life. But for myself, individually, I am most cosy here, and we all meet continually. Lady Gordon has instituted weekly picnics just for our own party, chiefly to get the gentlemen away from their incessant writing.
We have already had three of these, so we have seen a good deal of this isle of Ovalau, and very lovely it is. We always go by boat; indeed there are no paths (except a footpath along the shore) where a sane man would venture to ride even if there were horses, which there are not. Only an enterprising butcher’s boy ventures to clamber up day by day to bring needful supplies to such houses as are perched on the steep hillsides. Captain Olive also has a horse; and now Nasova owns a pony on which Abbey gallops into Levuka to forage for the house. The astonishment of the natives at first sight of a horse knew no bounds. They gathered round it, exclaiming, “Oh, the great pig!” and one rashly approached to pull its tail, and was considerably startled by receiving a very severe kick.
I suppose you know that one of the remarkable peculiarities of these isles is the strange lack of animal life. There were literally no indigenous four-footed creatures except rats and flying-foxes, and even the native rat has died out since foreign rats arrived from ships. Even the pigs, which in some places now run wild in the jungle, were originally introduced by the Tongans, who also brought cats, ducks, and fowls. As to other animals, such names as _seepi_ (mutton), _goti_ (goat), _pussi_ (cat), _ose_ (horse), _collie_[9] (dog), and _bullama kow_ (beef), sufficiently betray their foreign origin. Really I do miss the troops of monkeys so familiar in India and Ceylon.
Happily the list of Fijian reptiles is equally small, so that flies and mosquitoes are almost the only creatures we have to combat, and certainly they are an irritating plague. We know that centipedes and scorpions do exist, but they are very rare. I wish I could say as much for the cockroaches which infest every house, and are in their turn devoured by large spiders. I lay awake this morning watching the process. The unlucky cockroach contrived to get entangled in a strong web, and old Mr Spider darted out and tied him up securely, and then feasted at his leisure. Of course we carefully cherish these spider allies, and glory in webs which would greatly horrify your housemaids. The ants are also most energetic friends, and organise burial parties for the cockroaches as fast as we can kill them. Every morning we see solemn funerals moving across the verandah to the garden, and these are parties of about one hundred of the tiniest ants dragging away the corpse of a large cockroach.
Happily serpents are almost unknown, and the few that exist are not venomous. So we walk through densest underwood, among dead leaves and decaying timber, without fear of meeting anything more alarming than innocent lizards or an occasional land-crab. Of lizards I have seen a large green kind, and scores of a tiny blue and bronze, which flash like jewels in the sunlight.
Equally pleasant is the total absence of the countless species of thorny plants with which the whole jungle in Ceylon seemed to bristle. There I was for ever being torn and scratched by cruel thorns, and every shrub seemed armed with sharp needles—even the stems of certain kinds of palm-trees being covered with myriad little daggers and darning-needles two or three inches in length. Here the wild citron is the only thorny tree I have observed, and even that was not indigenous; so the contrast is highly in favour of Fiji, especially in the absence of serpents and other venomous reptiles. But, on the other hand, Fiji has traps for the unwary quite peculiar to itself. The commonest of these is the tree-nettle, which really is a large forest-tree. Beautiful but treacherous are its large glossy leaves, veined with red or white, most attractive to the eye, but anguish to the touch;—days will pass ere the pain of that burning sting subsides. However, forewarned is forearmed, and you are in no danger of accidentally touching these large showy trees, as you so often do the insignificant but obtrusive little nettle of our own woods.
There are, however, several other trees which are so intensely poisonous that it is dangerous even to touch them accidentally. One of these is the _kaukaro_, or itch-plant, from which exudes a milky juice causing agony, especially if the tiniest drop should come, even near the eye. Instances have occurred when a man has ignorantly selected this wood, either as timber from which to fashion his canoe, or a spar suitable for his mast; and incautiously sitting on the wood while carpentering, has discovered, when too late, that the subtle poison had entered by every pore, and that his whole body was rapidly breaking out in angry spots, causing an irritation utterly unbearable, and lasting for months, sometimes years.
As regards the general foliage, it is almost identical with that of Ceylon, though perhaps scarcely so rich. This, however, varies much on the different isles, and Ovalau is more noted for cliffs than for rich foliage. We shall see that in glory when we go to Taviuni. Here the only palm-trees are cocoa-nuts very much battered with the wind; and I miss the beautiful _kittool_ and several other palms which I loved in Ceylon. But I recognise various old friends, especially the large croton-tree, with silvery leaves and tufts of white blossom. Here it is known as the candle-nut, and reigns as monarch over an immense family of crotons of every shade of eccentricity both of form and colour. But the most gorgeous varieties are imported from isles nearer the equator.
There are several splendid trees which are quite new to me, being peculiar to the South Seas. Such are the _ivi_[10] (pronounced _eevie_), or Tahitian chestnut, and the _ndelo_,[11] with large glossy leaves like the india-rubber tree. Both these are valuable as affording cool, deep shade. There is also the _vutu_,[12] with its blossoms like tufts of silk fringe; the _tavola_,[13] or native almond-tree; and the _ndawa_, whose young leaves are bright crimson, and give a gleam of colour to the general expanse of green. Then there is the _mbaka_, which grows like the sacred banyan of India, beginning its life as a humble parasite, and in old age presenting an intricate network of white stems, pillars, and roots. It bears a very small leaf.
The commonest scrub-foliage is a hybiscus, with bluish-grey leaf, and pale primrose-coloured blossom, with a dark claret heart: it is a pretty flower on the tree, but dies when gathered. The inner bark yields a fibre which is greatly valued by the natives, and which they split and die yellow, red, or black, and make fringe kilts, to be worn either as sole raiment or over the _sulu_. It is also used by the fisher-folk for making their nets, especially the turtle-nets; but several other fibres are used for this purpose.
On this island there really is no level ground at all; and you would marvel where the people contrive to raise their crops, for the steep hills rise from the sea-beach. But if you were to follow the course of the picturesque streamlets which find their way down dark-wooded ravines, you would find that every available corner is laid out in tiny terraced fields, or rather miniature swamps, in which are cultivated the yams, _taros_, and _kumalas_ (sweet potatoes), which are the staple of native food. In taste they somewhat resemble coarse potatoes, especially the yams, which sometimes attain a gigantic size—from one to ten feet in length—and are said sometimes to weigh 100 lb. In some districts there are two yam crops in a year.
The _taro_ is of a bluish-grey colour, and both in appearance and consistency resembles mottled soap. Still I rather like it. Its leaves are like those of our own arum on a large scale (it is of the same family, _Arum esculentum_). One kind grows to a gigantic size, and its huge rich green leaves stand six or seven feet above their watery bed. You may often see a few plants of this giant arum close to the door of a house, and very ornamental they are; but the object for which they were placed there is to ward off the entrance of death or devils!
The leaves of the yam are like those of a convolvulus, as is also its habit of growth, each plant being trained along a tall reed. There are a great many different kinds, including one the root of which is throughout of a vivid mauve.
There are also tiny banana-gardens in every little crevice of the rock, and their great glossy leaves look cool and pleasant. There are about thirty varieties grown on these isles, and some bear immense pendent bunches with from one to two hundred fruits on each. The young inner leaf, which has not unrolled itself, is like the finest silk, and when warmed over the fire becomes quite waterproof, and is used as such. It is also used to tie up little bundles of sweet, oily pudding, in which the people delight. Do you realise that a banana or plantain leaf is from three to four feet long, and from ten to fifteen inches wide? Sometimes the girls carry them as parasols, and a very attractive picture they make.
There is one fruit-bearing plant here which is just like a natural umbrella—namely, the _papaw_, which carries a handsome crown of deeply indented leaves on a tall curiously diapered stem, round which hangs a cluster of green and golden fruit, useful when unripe as a vegetable, and when ripe as a fruit. I am told that the leaves have the valuable quality of making tough meat tender if it is wrapped up or cooked in them; and also that they are useful in washing, being saponaceous, so that if soaked with dirty clothes they save a considerable amount of soap.
Another plant, which to you is familiar as ornamental greenhouse foliage, is the dracæna (or ti-tree, as it is called in the colonies), which here is grown for the sake of its root, which is so large as sometimes to weigh 40 lb., and which answers the purpose of sugar. It is baked and used for puddings. It tastes like liquorice. The crown of long glossy leaves is useful as fodder where cattle exist; but here it is the equivalent of so many yards of green silk, and supplies some pretty damsel with a decent petticoat.
The crimson dracæna is sacred to the dead, and is constantly planted on the graves, and very beautiful is the effect thus produced; while overhead droops the mournful dull green of the _noko-noko_, or casurina-tree, which I can only describe as somewhat resembling the Weymouth pine, and which seems to sigh with every faint breath of wind that stirs its pendent foliage.
Here and there a small plantation of paper mulberry (_Broussonetia_), the bark of which supplies material for native cloth, or a patch of arrowroot, or perhaps a few tall sugar-canes or tufts of Indian corn, complete the common produce of the native gardens, and combine to produce an effect of rich and varied foliage.
But I must tell you about our picnics. As I before said, they are always water-parties; so we muster several boats and canoes, and start as early as we possibly can to try and profit by the delicious cool of the morning. Our first expedition was to the neighbouring isle of Moturiki, which is Thakombau’s own private property, specially reserved from Europeans, so the people see few white faces. There was, however, no staring or mobbing, and we set them down as a very polite race. The moment we landed they brought us fresh cocoa-nuts to drink, and took us to a large native house with wide heavy thatch,—and very grateful was its cool shade after several hours in the glaring sun. Fine mats were spread for us at one end of the house, which is slightly raised for use of “the quality”—an especially fine one, of a peculiar make called _tambu kaisi_ (forbidden to commoners), being placed for the white chief; and on this, custom demands that he should sit alone, as it would be contrary to all native manners that even a chief’s wife should sit on his mat. Not that wives or women-folk are looked upon in Fiji as inferior animals: quite the contrary; their position is very good, and their influence acknowledged.
Sir Arthur considers that a punctilious observance of the principal points in native etiquette is a means to secure respect and gain influence with the people who now hail him as their highest chief, so, amongst other ceremonies that have to be observed, is the invariable brewing of yangona (which you have heard spoken of in other groups as the _kava_). This, from a purely artistic point of view, is a very attractive scene, so I will describe it to you minutely. Picture to yourself the deep shade of the house, its brown smoke-thatched rafters and dark thatch-roof, with a film of blue smoke rising from the fireplace at the far end, which is simply a square in the floor edged with stones, round which, on mats, lie the boatmen, and a group of natives with flowers coquettishly stuck in their hair, and very slight drapery of native cloth, and fringes of bright croton-leaves. A great wooden bowl, with four legs, is then brought in. It is beautifully polished from long use, and has a purple bloom like that on a grape. A rope is fastened to it, and the end of this is thrown towards the chief. The yangona-root is then brought in, scraped and cleaned, cut up into small pieces, and distributed to a select circle of young men to chew. The operation is not _quite_ so nasty as might be supposed, as they repeatedly rinse their mouths with fresh water during the process, which occupies some time; while all the company sit round most solemnly, and some sing quaint _mékés_ (_i.e._, choruses), very wild and characteristic. They are so old that many of them are incomprehensible even to the singers, who merely repeat the words in an unknown tongue, as they learnt them from their parents.
When the chewing process is complete, each man produces a lump of finely chewed white fibre. This is then deposited in a large wooden bowl, and one of the number is told off to pour water on the yangona, and wring it out through a piece of hybiscus fibre, which is like a piece of fine netting. A turbid yellowish fluid is thus produced, in taste resembling rhubarb and magnesia, flavoured with sal-volatile. It is handed round in cups made of the shell of large cocoa-nuts, the chief being the first to drink, while all the onlookers join in a very peculiar measured hand-clapping. When he is finished, they shout some exclamation in chorus, and clap hands in a different manner. Then all the others drink in regular order of precedence.
Though no one pretends to like the taste of yangona, its after-effects are said to be so pleasantly stimulating that a considerable number of white men drink it habitually, and even insist on having it prepared by chewing, which is a custom imported from Tonga, and one which has never been adopted in the interior of Fiji, where the old manner of grating the root is preferred. It certainly sounds less nasty, but _connoisseurs_ declare with one voice that grated yangona is not comparable to that which has been chewed![14] The gentlemen all say that, sometimes when they have had a very long day of hard walking, they are thankful to the native who brings them this, the only stimulant which he has to offer, and that its effect is like sal-volatile. Confirmed drinkers acquire a craving for it. Its action is peculiar, inasmuch as drunkenness from this cause does not affect the brain, but paralyses the muscles, so that a man lies helpless on the ground, perfectly aware of all that is going on. This is a condition not unknown to the British sailor in Fiji.
This was the first time we had witnessed the scene, so of course we were exceedingly interested. Afterwards I had a long walk through the bush with Sir Arthur, Mr Maudslay, and Mr Le Hunte, Lady Gordon and Mrs Havelock preferring to rest. We had a grand scramble through rich vegetation, and we rested awhile in a quiet old graveyard partly overgrown with tall grasses, the graves all edged with the black stems of the tree-fern; and on many there is a low, red-leafed plant; on others, the tall red dracæna, with which the Fijians love to adorn the resting-place of their dead, as cypress or willow mark God’s acre in Old England. From this calm spot we overlooked the blue Pacific, dotted with many isles, chief of which is the clear-cut mountain outline of Viti Levu, the great isle, which I hope to visit ere long. How beautiful they all looked in the golden sunset light, as we rowed and sailed back to Nasova!
Our next picnic was to the romantic Levoni valley at the back of this island. We sailed past Moturiki and two smaller isles, and then rowed two miles up a cool pleasant river with deep green shade till we reached a landing-place, whence we walked a short distance to the clean, tidy little native town of Baretta. Mr Maudslay and Baron von Hügel walked all the way across the mountains, a tough day’s work. I walked up the valley with Sir Arthur and Colonel Pratt, but stopped half-way to sketch the splendid tree-ferns. We hurried back, intending to start at four o’clock to catch the tide, but found all the children of both the Roman Catholic and Wesleyan schools assembled in separate flocks. They looked very nice with their pretty necklaces and fringes of flowers and bright leaves worn over the little kilt of native cloth, and across the chest. Each party performed a small _méké_, and did a little reading and writing, although Captain Knollys, as admiral of our fleet, deemed the delay highly imprudent, for the tide was falling fast. As it was, we had to walk some distance through mangrove-swamp and tall reeds, and it was 6 P.M. (the invariable hour of sunset) ere we embarked. So we had to row home in the dark, in danger from many coral patches, but reached Nasova safely at 9 P.M., the children pretty well tired out.
Last Tuesday our picnic was at a pretty sandy bay, shaded by large trees, seven miles along the coast in the opposite direction; but Sir Arthur and Mr Gordon were both unwell, and could not come, and Sir William Hackett also failed. On our way back we landed at Waitova, where the native police have their headquarters—a pretty, shady place, with a pleasant stream, the upper pools of which were Commodore Goodenough’s favourite bathing-place.
Captain Olive lives there with his men, in a regular native house, and sleeps on a pile of about twenty fine Fijian mats. He has no chair, and no furniture. His glass and crockery at present consist of one cup and one tumbler. He feeds native-fashion, having his food brought to him on plaited trays and banana-leaves, the only remarkable object in the house being a large yangona-bowl. We went down to spend an afternoon there one day, and he fed us with sweet native puddings and pine-apples.
When we landed there on Tuesday there was a large gathering of Fijians, playing at throwing spears, and a game called _tinqua_—which consists in throwing reeds, with oval wooden heads, called _toa_, that skim along the ground for 100 or 150 yards—and other sports. They were all adorned with the usual festal garlands and green leaves; their faces painted, some of a rich black, which is truly hideous, though I do not consider scarlet or blue to be much better. One man was painted all over spots like a leopard; some wore white cloth _sulus_ as full as an opera-dancer’s skirt; others wore little but the fringe of long black water-weed, with a great bunch of white _tappa_, _en panier_. The Vuni Valu’s daughter, Andi Arietta Kuilla (Lady Harriet Flag), was looking on. She is a huge, good-natured-looking woman; very clever, I am told.
There was quite a stir in Levuka last Monday in honour of Miss Cudlip’s marriage to Mr Tucker. The bride’s family being very popular in the isles, a large number of the planters came to it, and they had a merry dance. The young couple started for their home on the big isle, three days’ journey in an open boat, _hoping_, if wind and tide prove favourable, to be able to touch at a friend’s house each night. No nice yacht-cabins here. I wonder how you would like such a life!
Now little Rachel has come to carry me off to tea, so I must say good-bye.—Ever lovingly yours.