San Francisco Chronicle, December 1900
Transcribed from the original by Amanda Selvidio
A dinner party in Fiji does not mean an English function at the Gubernatorial mansion in Suva, the capital city. It means a purely native affair at a Fijian village twenty-five miles up the Rewa river. Unless one is better informed than are most people, the mention of any sort of feast in the Fijian group of islands will at once suggest a menu not unlike "Cold missionary on the sideboard and cooked Christians always ready day and night." In fact, when — a year or two since — I announced my purpose of visiting Fiji, horror-stricken looks and direful predictions, "You'll surely be eaten!" were the rule, rather than the exception.
Although hardly expecting such a termination to my visit, I was illy prepared for conditions as I found them. Familiar with the miserably dirty huts of American aborigines, a great surprise awaited me in the neat and attractive interior of the Fijian houses. In most cases the site for a dwelling is prepared by the construction of an artificial mound. This secures such perfect drainage that, even during the rainy season, the earthen floor is free from moisture. Upon the foundation thus made ready is set up the framework of bread-fruit timber — a high pitched roof and extremely low, upright walls. The rafters are fastened to the long ridge pole and all the other timbers are kept in place by cords of "sennet" (braided cocoanut fiber). Not infrequently all the larger timbers are wound with it, coil after coil. In such houses the smaller beams and posts show elaborate designs of the same material in a variety of brown and ecru shades. Sometimes the sides are constructed of reeds so carefully adjusted that neither wind, rain nor sunlight can penetrate, but most of the modern houses have the sides — like the roofs of all — covered with a thick thatch made of overlapping rows of leaves. By way of decoration the horizontal reeds, upon which these thatch leaves are fastened, are wound with "sennet" of contrasting colors, so that the interior walls show alternating diamonds of light and dark. The ends of the ridge pole project a foot or two from the house. If this projection show upon the end a huge white conch-shell, no surer indication of aristocracy could be asked, as none but the Fijian elite is allowed to so decorate a dwelling.
The floors of earth are covered with numerous layers of neatly braided mats. As all cooking is done either in the open air or in a tiny house built for that purpose, the dwellings are kept extremely neat. There is only one room on the ground floor, which is sometimes divided into rooms by reed partitions, but more frequently screens of "tapa," as the native cloth is termed, serve as the sole division between apartments. These screens, like the doors in Cuban sleeping-rooms, extend only about two-thirds the distance between floor and rood, thus allowing a free circulation of air.
In just such a house as this lives Andi Thakambau, the Fijian princess, whose grandfather — the old cannibal King — in 1874, ceded to England his island kingdom. Wondrous indeed has been the change since he tendered his war club to her majesty's representative with the assertion, "The barbaric law and age are the past," and the promise that, under her majesty's rule, his people should, "submit themselves to civilization." Although but a quarter century has elapsed since this promise, throughout the entire island group is evident a civilization far ahead of anything to be expected. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the King's own descendants — two young matrons for whom English and native alike have only words of praise. I had met both repeatedly, and when, finally, Andi Thakambau honored me with an invitation to a dinner party I accepted with great pleasure, although the acceptance involved a river trip of fifty miles.
The guests invited to meet me were all Caucasian ladies. The house is of such immense proportions that it was hard to understand how the great ridge-pole had been raised to its lofty position with the primitive native appliances, until the information that 300 men were employed served as a partial explanation. The windows were screened by a blind made of braided cocoanut leaves. A string fastened to the bottom of this blind passes up over a rafter. By this the blind can be fastened inside, out of the way. A similar arrangement on the outside, makes it act as an awning or sun screen. It is scarcely possible to imagine the coolness of this lofty open house when we entered it on a hot day. Ratu Bene — the husband — received the guests with the hostess. We were escorted directly to a little raised platform, which we learned later was usually sacred to guests belonging to the Fijian nobility.
To do honor to the occasion our hostess had brought out all the rare mats which are treasured heirlooms in her family, covering the floor to such a depth that we decided sitting "Turk fashion" was not very hard after all. As the hour for the feast approached Ratu Bene disappeared, as the dinner was to be exclusively a ladies' function.
Finally, at a quiet signal from their mistress, two pretty attendants appeared with a handsome double mat, long enough to reach entirely across the room. This was to serve as tablecloth. Beside it, on the side opposite the door, was placed another. This was for the guests to sit upon, the Princess occupying a small one at the head of this improvised table.
When hostess and guests had taken their places, one flower-bedecked maiden placed a fan beside each, as two others brought in the soup. This was much like nut shells. No spoons being forthcoming, I took my cue from those familiar with native customs and drank the liquid. When the central calabash and the individual soup bowls had disappeared other attendants brought fish. This was served in native plates, plaited from cocoanut leaves and lined with crisp, fresh banana leaves. Before each guest laid a glossy taro-leaf, which was to answer the purpose of a plate. Neither knives nor forks appeared, but so delicious was the fish that we all proved ourselves aware that "fingers were made before forks."
At the conclusion of this course, one servant folded our plates and removed them, another cleared the table, and to each lady was brought a half-cocoanut shell filled with water. While these primitive finger bowls were used, a fringed square of white tapa was furnished to take the place of a serviette. Prawns came next, and by each of us stood a ducky handmaid to remove the shells.
Graceful and dignified, our royal hostess kept an alert eye upon all — for it is a part of native etiquette that she shall eat nothing until her guests have finished. Turtle followed the prawns, and with it were served baked yams. I had gone with a fixed determination to eat what was set before me, not matter how great the effort of will required. By this time I had decided that Fijian cooking did not need much improving, and when delicious roast fowls appeared, accompanied by great golden spheres of bread fruit, served in trenchers and garnished with the crisp bread-fruit leaves, I was inclined to think that this primitive people could give some points to table decorators.
At the close of each course the green plates were replenished, the finger bowls passed and the table entirely cleared in the swift, deft-handed attendants, whose subject, crouching courtesies — made each time the Princess was passed — were amusing to see.
The queer puddings, "vakilolo," which came with dessert were made of taro and grated cocoanut. One dish, which was something of a tax upon the ingenuity of those to whom spoons are an every-day matter, consisted of great Java bananas, gashed, filled with grated cocoanut and served floating in cocoanut milk. A jelly came next, the ingredients of which were arrowroot, seaweed and cocoanut. This was the only dish which did not appeal to my palate, the seaweed making itself unpleasantly manifest by a saltish flavor.
As kava, the recognized tipple of the South seas, was not allowable at a ladies' dinner, the drink offered consisted of the expressed juice of a sour fruit called "roe," sweetened with sugar-cane juice. The fans at our places had been made expressly for us to retain as souvenirs of this unique dinner party.
The dress of our hostess might be summed up as a "sulu" and a "pinafore." The "sulu" is the short, loose loin cloth which is worn by both sexes. Folded about the waist, it hangs almost to the knees. The pinafore is like a Mother Hubbard wrapper cut off at the waist line, so that each movement of the wearer's arm reveals a strip of brown skin between the two garments. The hair of all married women is worn short. In many cases elaborate floral decorations are worn, but the extreme simplicity which is a marked characteristic of the Princess is apparent in her omission of such additions to her costume.
