Traveller Confession: An Idiot’s Guide to Kava

~ Words by Vickie Sam Paget, Sky Blue Content ~

“You do know that this ceremony is only for the tourists, right?” smiles the man knowingly. “This isn’t the real thing.”

I raise a suspicious eyebrow and assess the character before me. It’s always wise to do this when travelling alone. Wearing just a turquoise sarong and a cheeky grin, he most definitely has a glint in his eye, that much can’t be denied. It could be a glint of mischief­­—but it’s certainly not a glint of wickedness—and I like to think that I can tell the difference.

So I decide I like him immediately.

I learn that his name is Tupo as he thrusts out a hand to cement our newfound friendship. However, before things can go any further, we’re interrupted by the village chief, a rotund giant of a man decked out in a simple sarong of sky blue.

“BULA!” erupts the most important man in the shack, then he claps his hands as a sign of respect and raises his coconut-shell ‘glass’ high into the air. A robust man by all accounts, he downs the murky, nocuous fluid contained within with one fell swoop of his gargantuan arm.

It’s not the tropical creaminess of coconut milk inside that shell though: it’s kava. A relative of the pepper plant, kava roots are mashed up with water to produce the local firewater, which has sedative and anaesthetic qualities. It’s all part of the traditional welcoming kava ceremony, which is a vital part of Fijian village life.

But let’s call a spade a spade: kava looks and tastes like muck. No offence intended, but there really is no polite way to describe it. The nicest way of putting it would be to say that it’s like the water that has been drained from Satan’s bathtub. But that would be too kind. And this putrid concoction has you running to the bathroom like nobody’s business. However, the other side effects of kava—ahhh, the other side effects—are simply sublime.

Which is part of the reason I find myself sitting cross-legged on a grass mat in a Fijian shack one evening shouting “Bula!” (which means ‘love’) and clapping my hands together with glee every 20 seconds as the coconut shell works its way around our circle in strict order: chief first, gentlemen second, ladies third.

It’s a dizzying experience—a cacophony of multicolour sarongs, glowing eyes, gleaming smiles, clapping hands and heartfelt declarations of “LOVE!”

At first my lips start to tingle. Then my mouth goes a little numb—just like it does at the dentist—only without all of that inconvenient buzz-kill drilling. And then the tingles run up and down my spine and fly out of my fingertips, and before I know it: I’m grinning like a big idiot.

But, at least I’m not the only one; Tupo is also grinning like a big idiot. And by this stage in the game we’re partners in crime, him and I, so there’s no chance that I’m going to turn down his invitation to a “proper” kava ceremony with his friends—a ceremony that “isn’t just for tourists”. Not a chance on earth.

Because now I want Beelzebub’s bath water. I crave it.

So, before I know it, I’m grinning idiotically on grass mat #2 of the evening. This time there are no tourists in my circle of Bula—just me, Tupo and five strapping six-foot-tall smiling Fijians dressed in a veritable rainbow of sarongs.

They’re a merry troop, to say the least—so much so that they tell me they want to bestow the honour of ‘chief’ upon me. What can I say? Not much by this stage, to tell the truth… So I just nod and grin idiotically.

I get to drink the devil’s bathwater out of the coconut shell before it travels around my tribe, who by now are all getting very festive indeed. A guitar appears. A drum. A pair of spoons is clashed together with true emotion. And what tune do they serenade their new chief with? Why, Eric Clapton’s You Look Wonderful Tonight, of course. Because my tribe just loves Eric Clapton. They can’t get enough of him.

After much passing of the coconut shell and the third heartfelt rendition of Layla, this little chief decides to call it a night. There’s no electricity after 9pm on my island, so I swagger back to my tent (it’s not really fitting accommodation for a chief, I know, but what can you do?) with my torch in my hand. With no light pollution for miles and miles, the stars shine brighter for me than they have ever done before. They even dare to caress the Pacific-splashed horizon with their dazzling diamond dust.

I stun a few wide-eyed toads that are lounging in my path with my torch, and they lazily croak their disapproval. Who do they think they’re talking to? Don’t they know I’m the new chief?

Belligerent toads aside though, I take to my new role like a duck to water. I lose a full week on my island in a whirlwind of coconut shells, warm hugs, clapping hands, star-sprinkled skies, kisses on the cheek and an unhealthy amount of Eric Clapton covers.

The result? I cried when I left Fiji. As I climbed onto my boat to leave my island, and Tupo and the boys stood on the beach in their sarongs and sang the traditional Fijian farewell song (it’s not by Eric Clapton, you’ll be glad to hear), I cried like a big baby.

Some would even say like a big idiot.

Image: flickr.com/photos/bdearth/
This feature first appeared in Canadian Traveller magazine.