A Change Of Venue

Day 8 - Sunday December 16, 2001 - 10:45am

The four of us, John, Michael, Lindsay and myself, trudge up the small hill on the far side of the airstrip in our Sunday best. Well, as ‘best’ as can be expected under the circumstances.

We arrive early and suss out the place.

Church on the island of Malolo Lailai consists of a small wood frame structure covered in whitewash and small flowering vines. Screened windows run down both sides and large doors open at both ends. Two large ceiling fans keep air circulating but one cannot consider the place ‘cool’ by any stretch of the imagination. As we enter we are presented with ‘Good News’ bibles and hymnbooks and shown to our pew.

Now it’s been many (many!) years since I’ve attended a church of any kind for any reason, but I do remember the introduction of the ‘Good News’ bibles when I was about twelve or thirteen years old. I remember thinking then that these new translations were yet another attempt to corral us heathens into the “arms of the Lord” by making the bible more accessible.

The ‘Good News’ bible is a rough, modern translation that includes crude pencil cartoons depicting biblical themes. It’s a silly bloody book because firstly, the actual bible text is ‘translated’ into modern English with modern idiom intact - a 1960s version of ‘modern’ at that. You can’t follow what the preacher is saying because it’s entirely likely that what you’re reading is a short précis of the actual verse he’s reading from a ‘real’ bible. Secondly, unless I’m very much mistaken, the ‘Good News’ bibles were quickly rejected in North America for this very reason, especially in evangelical circles. The books we had been handed were old enough to make me think they had been shipped off to faraway lands because they couldn’t give them away back home. It’s like studying the Cliff Notes version instead of the King James Version.

As I said, we were early and this gave me time to open a hymnbook and peruse it for fifteen minutes or so before the minister showed up. It was then that I realized we were ensconced in a Methodist congregation.

For someone whose early life was spent being shuffled from one denomination to another — Catholic one Sunday, Anglican the next, Greek Orthodox the next, Holy Rollers speaking in tongues just for effect, and then a good ol’ Negro tent revival for a change of pace — Methodism is something I hadn’t actually experienced in seven or eight odd years playing ‘ring around the deity’.

So, it was with some interest that I dove into the biography of Charles Wesley who was one of the true practitioners of Methodism and the father of the Wesleyan school. Chuck apparently spent seventy of his eighty-one years writing hymns and this particular book was dedicated to his work. Christ, what a job!

IDOL THOUGHT
Hmm… now that’s a good logline for a church. Someone oughta jump on that one right away. I can see the religious campaign poster now: A picture of the guy nailed to the “T” with the caption underneath - “Christ - what a job!” And underneath, the obligatory e-mail: no-one@home.com.

Not to worry about my instant conversion - it was the shallow end of the pool.

I was here for two reasons. One, I wanted to see what ten or so generations of British rule had meant to Fiji’s conversion to Christianity. I was a little surprised to find that they were practicing Methodists, at least in this neck of the woods. Two, I was hoping that the singing of the hymns would afford me the opportunity to hear these incredible Fijian voices raised to the heavens, literally and figuratively. I wasn’t disappointed.

As the clock ticked closer to the appointed hour of atonement — 11am — about twenty locals wandered in dressed for the part. Men, women, boys, girls, young, old… all wore brightly coloured frocks for the occasion and carried hand fans to assist in the cooling effect of the choppers on the ceiling.

An elderly Fijian gentleman dressed in ceremonial sulu, jacket and tie and carrying one of the largest bibles I’ve ever seen (no ‘Good News’ for him) entered the church from the back door and the service began.

He started by telling those assembled that he was grateful to see so many world travellers in his (and ‘His’ no doubt) midst on God’s day. But he also apologized by saying that the majority of the service would be conducted in Fijian with only an occasional English translation. No problem - it’s what I expected.

Our minister proved to be far more persuasive in Fijian with his ‘fire and brimstone’ than he was in English. The English portion of his sermon was almost phonetic. With John having been raised a Catholic and Michael and Lindsay being C of E, I’m certain the experience was amazing to them regardless.

The theme of the day’s sermon (in English at least) was: “The First is the First.” A none-too-veiled reference to JC being the Son of God, what with the run-up to Christmas ‘n all. I found it strange that he made no reference to the ‘second coming’. I guess “The Second is the Second” just doesn’t resonate.

He completed the sermon in English by saying that we were all ‘one’ in the eyes of the Lord. Apparently the sun’s so bright in Fiji the Lord wears shades.

Forty-four percent of the population of Fiji is East Indian, but they have only half the voting power of native Fijians and can’t own or even lease land. By law it takes two East Indian Fijians to make up one vote - no shit! The reverend must have been using the localized ‘we’, not the universal ‘we’. Yeah - that’s it.

There were four hymns to be sung and I can tell you that these were the true showstoppers. Men in practiced three- or four-part harmony with the women singing solos. Absolutely amazing. I managed to record some of it (somewhat surreptitiously I must add) on my video recorder and I’ll probably use some of it in my Fiji movie. Quite an experience all round.

Same Day - 2:00pm

Tony and Janice and I sat outside their bure drinking G&Ts and eating corned beef and leftover rice salad sandwiches for lunch. Janice kept apologizing - they weren’t terribly good she thought. I thought they were yummy.

We had a long pleasant visit trying as best we could to learn about each other’s culture and favourite pastimes. It’s clear I have to go to NZ some day - soon. Sounds fantastic. Every Kiwi I’ve met on this trip has gone on and on about what their lifestyle is like and why I should come there for a holiday. I’m in.

Mind you, John made the same case for wee Scotland. He said May / June is the best time to come and there are castles galore and pubs on each corner. Actually, he gave more emphasis on the latter reason than the former. I’ll go there too. Perhaps on my way to NZ!

So, tomorrow at noon I’m off to Castaway Island by boat launch. I’ll stay for seven days / six nights and then return to Musket Cove. I may try and secure a Seaview Bure like the one Tony and Janice have. It’s quite large and is a building all by itself. It has no A/C but two large ceiling fans and windows on all four sides. Plus, it has a large front porch and a kitchen with cooking facilities. Might be a tad more expensive but I’m hoping the experience will be worth it.

One last thing for the day. Tony mentioned that you could make a lot of money deep-sea game fishing if you were willing to put in the time, effort and no small amount of seed money. There are trophy fisherman that can command big bucks for the right fish sold to Japanese businessmen and restaurateurs. It goes like this:

Let’s say you catch a 1000kg marlin off the coast of a small Fijian island (happens more often than you might think). You’re prepared for this eventuality and you’ve secured the services of professional fish handlers who are present on your boat with all the paraphernalia of their arcane trade. The marlin is ever so gently hoisted into the boat using a special crane and French chamois cradle. Your potential catch-of-the-day is lowered into a waiting tank filled with filtered, body-temperature sea water and rubbed down with special oils by the assistants wearing special foam rubber gloves so as not to mark its prized skin or bruise it HIGHLY prized flesh (read: meat).

A helicopter has been dispatched to your boat upon hearing news of the catch and our coddled fish is whisked away to Nadi International Airport where further transportation, this time a chartered freight carrier (sometimes a C-130 ‘borrowed’ from the U.S. Air Force!), is waiting to fly it directly to Narita International Airport outside Tokyo. The last leg of the journey is again via helicopter as your prized marlin is lowered slowly into its waiting berth at the largest indoor market in the world, the Tokyo Fish Market. Elapsed time from line strike to Fish Market: less than 10 hours!

Approaching the ‘fresh’ catch, the interested Japanese businessman feels the skin and may even remove a small section of the tail with a special fish knife. This last ritual will tell the most experienced buyer which area of the sea the fish was caught in, how healthy it is, its age, and most importantly, whether said businessman has the opportunity to regain his investment should he decide to buy.

Meanwhile, you’re sitting at the bar back on the island with your satellite phone waiting for Papa-san to make the call giving you the thumbs up or the thumbs down.

The phone rings. You’re told that the fish was mature, unscarred and healthy. He will purchase the fish. The carcass will be turned into purses, wallets, shoes, boots, and various forms of apparel. The meat will be sold to several high-end restaurants where it will be eaten within the next 24 hours. He himself will have the remains stuffed and mounted and probably presented to a business friend as a token of admiration. And you… you’ll cash a cheque for anywhere from US$100,000 to US$250,000. A couple of those in a week — and there are some who do — and a guy could make some serious chump change.

How’s that bumper sticker go again..?

No shit!