The Fiji Files
Following the footsteps of the queen by trying Kava, a traditional Polynesian brew as potent as four pegs of whiskey
Just what were the odds?
Within a week of devouring a dog-eared edition of Alexander Frater’s watershed Chasing the Monsoons, embellished with a reference to a potent brew, Kava, I was sipping the potion with Hanfiro, a handsome Fijian, whose name meant, what else, but rain.
Sun, sea and sand
Kava or Yaqona’s found throughout Polynesia, and is the national drink of Fiji Islands, a clutch of over 300 isles scattered in the very heart of the South Pacific Ocean. Made from the root of the pepper plant, its deceptively simple name belies the fact it’s quite a muddled curiosity. Between lyrical descriptions of subcontinental squalls and deluges in Frater’s obsessively detailed tome, his comment on the potency of the pulverized roots is incredulous. Paraphrasing, it’s a concoction that packs in the punch of four pegs of whiskey! Really, now!
Yodelling out a warm welcome
It’s twilight on Nadi Island in Fiji. I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor for the traditional, male-dominated Yaqona Ceremony. Right across me are the plump and smiling Mojee and Hanfiro the handsome, clad in grass skirts, their shorts peeping through. They’re mixing powdered Kava from a muslin cloth into a Tanoa, a large wooden bowl made from a hardwood tree, adding cold water from a natty chrome wine chiller. Hanfiro swirls the muddy brew. He dips in a half coconut shell, a Bilo, fills it and hands it over to me. I accept the cup, clapping once. Yaqona’s a joyous, communal ceremony revolving around a circulating, unwashed bowl. It’s rude to refuse a bilo, and the bilo needs to be drained completely. Between holding the cup and ingesting the contents, I’ve clapped and said Bula, the Fijian equivalent of cheers, atleast thrice. The insipid grog crawls down my throat. I try not to grimace, the guide books have warned me not to. Then, I wait for the effect to set in.
The Soso Village men partaking in a kava ceremony on Yasawa islands
The ceremony’s religious origins have a strong social undercurrent. Now it’s an excuse to swap yarn, the boys tell me. Earlier women used to lurk in the background: they sat behind men and gnawed the roots into a pulpy mess, till, fortunately, the pestle and mortar showed up. The bilo found their lips only after the men had guzzled it. Things have since changed. Even Queen Elizabeth II has had her share of the blend. As the guest of honor, the first bilo comes to me, before it finds its way to any mustachioed upper lip.
Story telling – Talanoa – is a part of this rite. Mojee speaks of cannibals who ran amuck in Fiji a few centuries ago. Hanfiro speaks of enterprising villagers who planted biscuits on a remote island. Meanwhile, a Kava induced sopor settles in. Stiff, arched backs melt into curves. Sprawling is inevitable. The bilo drifts around the room. Kava’s said to be addictive. Unhealthy in copious amounts, in moderation the brew has medicinal properties. By then, I’m fantastically relaxed and vaguely happy.
Time to glug it up!
The Tanoa finally drained; we crawl out of the room, following Hanfiro to the beach where he starts fire spinning, the flames dancing before our eyes. And, as if on cue, a soft drizzle begins to fall.
This piece appeared in GQIndia.com
