COMPLIANCE AND CARE:
AN ETHNOGRAPHY OF A FIJIAN VILLAGE
by Emily Sparks

Chapter 4
Life Cycle: Growing Up and Becoming Fijian

Chapter 4

Marriage

Having Children and Growing Up in Fiji

Funerals

The Village "Adi"

Presentation of Gifts -- A Window into the Fijian Ethos

Food

During my brief stay in Navolau #2, I collected information of these various life cycle events, and observed families raising their children. However, I was not able to attend a formal marriage ceremony, nor a funeral, nor did I witness what happens during the birth of a child. Nevertheless, from learning and listening to Fijians tell me about these events, I have gathered that the most important theme that all these events stress is the importance on kinship and family relations. During these rituals, the presence of family is emphasized at every ritual, and this impresses on people the importance of strong kinship ties.

Thus, this chapter will focus on the emphasis Fijians place on family relationships during important stages throughout life. I will demonstrate this by first explaining what Fijians have told me about these events, and what I have observed. I will also describe in detail the village "Adi," or annual fundraiser festival. Although this event is not one where individuals pass into a different stage of life, it is an event that demonstrates the importance of family.

Marriage

The event of marriage in Fiji is closely tied to cultural ideas about the unity and cohesiveness of the community. Traditionally, marriage in Fiji was arranged between parents of individuals from ideally two different mataqali, where the boy's parents would choose the girl, or rather, her family, and present the gift of a tabua, or whale's tooth, to the bride's parents. In contemporary Fijian life, an alternative to traditional marriage is most often practiced, signifying, in the abstract, the individual's choice over the importance of solidifying community bonds. However, even in the nontraditional marriages which occur today, where the individuals choose each other, the parents still must gracefully smooth over relations between families and within their community (ies). Thus the weddings still end up cementing relations within communities. In this section I will discuss these two types of marriages -- the "tukuni," or the elopement (the nontraditional marriage), and the "dugecei," or the formal ceremony.

Today most young couples "elope" when they get married. The term "elope" in this context means that a wedding is not formally organized, and that one night the boy invites the girl back to his family's house to sleep. This action symbolizes the desire to get married, for once the girl comes to the boy's home, she will continue to live at the house, as the wife of her husband, and perhaps just as importantly, as the daughter-in-law of his parents (if they do in fact move into their home, which is what I have observed). The boyfriend and girlfriend will now refer to each other as husband and wife, for when a young woman leaves her home, as one informant told me, "She has left her home. This is a new life for her now, she is entering a new stage in life." A marriage like this, called a "tukuni," although not a formal wedding, is regarded as a union of individuals, as well as a union of families. In order for couples to be formally married, they must go through a ceremony either through the church or through the provincial office which solidifies their marriage. Couples often do this either because they feel that their parents might object to their marriage (for once the girl stays over, there is no going back), because the girl is already pregnant, or because they simply have chosen each other, and this is their way of announcing their choice. However, when this happens, the husband's parents are ashamed that their son has wooed this young woman, and thus they are humiliated in front of the bride's parents, as well as in front of the community. As a gesture of apology to the bride's family, for their son's behavior, and as a demonstration that the husband's family wishes to smooth over relations between the two families a presentation is necessary here. This occurs early the next morning.

The husband's father, along with other male members (usually elders) will go to the bride's parents asking for their forgiveness, as well as asking for their daughter. At least one tabua (but preferably several) is presented as well as yaqona to the wife's family. This type of atonement, or apology, after the deed has been done (after the girl has been wooed to the husband's home) is called a bulubulu by some of the villagers in Navolau. However, there are contrasting views on what a bulubulu actually is. While some say it is the atonement the boy's parents make to the girl's parents the next day (or with in a few days); others say it is the atonement they make after several years, once the families have buried their differences (bulubulu literally does mean to bury). The delayed bulubulu also often involves being able to build up the resources to present a formal and elaborate display of atonement.

If a bulubulu is to be presented within days of the elopement, it should be done as quickly as possible. As Ravuvu says, "Because they do not want to lose face and be ostracized to their lack of respect for tradition and lower their image within the community, they usually act quickly to approach and atone the woman's parents" (1983: 46). Thus, this courteous demonstration of apology is presented not only out of respect to the bride's parents, but also to demonstrate to the community that they embrace "yalomalua" (humility) and "rorogo" (being attentive and complying) -- two highly regarded traits of Fijian personality. This is why they hurry over the next morning (preferably) and present the tabua. When a bulubulu is presented several years later, a much larger gift is presented by the husband's group to express respect for the wife's family. This type of bulubulu, usually presented five to fifteen years after the elopement, is an elaborate presentation, including perhaps fifteen tabua, up to fifty or sixty drums of kerosene, masi for the bride to dress in, as well as formal yaqona presentations. When explaining the difference between these two types of bulubulu, one young man commented:

The longer the husband's family waits to present a bulubulu, they more gifts they will bring. If they wait five or ten years, it will be a big feast, with many people, dozens of drums of kerosene, and many tabua. But if you present one early on, only a few people from the husband's family might go, and only one or two tabua will be presented.

Thus, when a family waits a few years, after the family's hostilities, or ill feelings towards one another are buried (as the word bulubulu implies), a large presentation and feast is celebrated between the two families. It is important to note that in both types of bulubulu, the newly married couple, for which the ritual is conducted, have very little to do with the actual ceremony. In the case of a bulubulu that is presented within a few days, the new wife and husband do not even attend the presentation. In the bulubulu that is presented several years later, the new wife does formally present a whale's tooth to her husband's father, as well as her mother's brother (both entitled "momo," the most respected figure in the kinship network); however, overall the ceremony stresses the ties between the two families rather than the individuals.

During my stay in Navolau an elopement occurred in the area. The new wife is 19 years old, her husband 23. Although they have been together for about three years, it is only now that they are "married," are they allowed to go places together, and act as a couple. I found out about their union the day after the young woman spent the night at her new in-laws. A friend told me the news:

Hey, [that young woman] got married last night! ["What?" I remember saying.] She stayed at [her husband's] house, she's not going to be living at home anymore. She will have her meals there, cook there, and be a part of his family. She might come back to do her washing, but it will be only to visit, how much she comes back is really up to [her husband] now.

When I went over to see her in her new environment she hid behind the wall and then jumped out, laughing her excited and nervous giggle which is unnaturally loud, as if to say, "Surprise!" Her sister-in-law (her husband's brother's wife) pointed out their relationship, "See, this is her new home now, she is the new member of the family. She is my 'karua,' so we are like sisters now. See, she is doing the washing now for her and Maciu, and the cooking today as well." Her new sister-in-law pointed out an interesting fact, that "she is the new member of the family." Thus, although she and her husband chose each other as husband and wife, based on their individual bonds, the day to day reality is that now she belongs to and is a member of his family, and works as a member of it accordingly. Her sister-in-law also addressed her as "karua," right away -- a term that means sister-in-law, through two wives married into the family, but also connotes that they will live as sisters. This also brings her closely into the family from early on. The idea that two karua will live like sisters demonstrates how Fijians conceptualize their family network. When an event like this occurs, Fijians are quick to make a new member of the family a part of their own family, reaffirming their kin network as extensively as possible.

Although this young woman has known her new in-laws her whole life, since they are both from the same village, her role in relation to them has changed overnight. On this first day in her new home, she was quiet and humble in the company of her new momo and nei (her father-in-law and mother-in-law), whereas before in their home, she could be her confident, somewhat outgoing self. For example, during a village festival, she helped cook for the youth group at this house. She was poised and sure of herself, as she was asking others to perform certain tasks while cooking. She bossed the children around, and was a central figure in the production of the meal. However, on the day she moved in to the home as a daughter-in-law she was quiet and passive, folding the clothes, and saying very little in the presence of her husband's parents.

One aspect of a tukuni marriage is that the bride's parents do not know when this will occur; thus, they are surprised and worried when their daughter doesn't come home one night. In this case, the young woman's mother for example cried all night when she did not come home. She said that she assumed that she was there, but that after tonight, she will never be at home anymore. Indeed, the move certainly is abrupt.

The young woman's parents accepted the tabua the morning after their daughter slept away from home, but they were not happy to see her go. They felt that she was too young to be married, and that she had many friends, and was a happy young lady living with her parents. This shows that the parents were willing to sacrifice their personal feelings about whether their daughter should be married for the benefit of having smooth relations with the other family. It would be highly disrespectful to refuse the husband's family's tabua; consequently, the wife's parents would find it difficult to disagree even if they personally disapprove of the match. Thus, the role they must carry out to smooth over relations between the two families is more important than how they actually felt.

According to one villager in Navolau, the bulubulu gift is a kind of "compromise, to smooth things over between the two families, until the sin of eloping is gone, and the families bury all the differences between them." In other words, the bulubulu gifts are offered as an apology, and are temporary, until a formal wedding ceremony can occur. Often the formal wedding ceremony does not happen until three, five, or even ten years after the elopement. Not only do the families need time to save up for such an event, but as this informant pointed out, families want to celebrate the union of their children once any hostile feelings, or differences between them have dissipated. Thus, the celebration takes place once the families have good relations with each other. This is yet another example of the public celebration showing that the families demonstrate getting along well within the community. It is a time when they put their personal feelings aside, for the benefit of a community celebration.

Once the time comes for a wedding ceremony, it is a very happy event. The event is put on by the groom's family, and the wife's family comes bearing gifts (both her mataqali and her vasu, or mother's people attend, if it is possible). Here, one informant who did not have a church service, describes her wedding:

Our marriage was one day, we didn't have a church service, but we first went to the Rakiraki district officer to sign the wedding papers. Then we went over to the hall for a celebration, where we wore masi cloth as we walked in (traditional Fijian cloth). Choice mats were laid out, and there was a feast. In a Fijian wedding, the men have to spend lot -- prepare the foods for us. Only for my family, they have to come and eat! There was a presentation of tabua, and people made speeches about me going into his family. Each family provides clothes for those getting married, and those clothes -- like the masi is left to the husband's family.

This informant did not have a church service because her husband's family was Seventh Day Adventist, and her family Methodist, so they decided not to have a service. When signing marriage papers, she and her husband had to go back one month later to prove that they were actually married.

Gifts of the wedding are called "tevutevu" gifts, and are gifts to start a new life. In Fijian society gift giving, and reciprocating gifts, are associated with social gain and recognition, as well as a way to show respect for the other group. Without exception, weddings, tevutevu gifts, and the "magiti" (ceremonial food gifts) are given, and reciprocated many times over so that an excess of gifts have been presented from each group. The presentation of the gifts and the magiti are in theory offered by the husband's family to the bride's family to recognize, accept and thank "the woman's people who have cooperated in providing a wife and future mother for the group" (Ravuvu 1983: 51). Where the tabua, yaqona, and mats are presented and offered, less traditional gifts are also given to the new couple. Kerosene drums, mosquito nets, mattresses, dressers, and even cupboards are given to the newly wed couple by the bride and the groom's family. Many of the gifts are actually given to the newly wed couple; however, the excess of gift giving shows that families are more concerned about building strong social ties with each other rather than pleasing the new bride and groom. Relating to the idea that an unlimited amount can be provided (which will be discussed later), gifts of a wedding show that each family is giving the most that they can, "to ensure that both parties are satisfied, so that they gain rather than lose social recognition" (Ravuvu 1983: 47), and consequently, families try to outdo each other with the amount of gifts that they offer. Thus, by doing this, these families are ideally displaying their utmost respect for the opposite groups.

A "dugucei wedding," is a traditional marriage -- it is formal, and arranged in advance. Usually the groom's family approaches the bride's family months in advance, presents more than one tabua (this is preferred, but not always economically feasible), and asks for the daughter in exchange for the tabua. The bride to be does not have to be present during this presentation. According to one informant in the village, "The parents will ask the daughter if she wants to marry this man, but it is difficult for the girl's parents to say no to the offering of two to five tabua." If the family agrees to the marriage, they will present one tabua in return. However, Ravuvu describes the bride-to-be's options differently. He says, "Her consent is only a token of nature, and is often sought after her parents and relatives have agreed to the marriage" (1983: 47).

Both Ravuvu's description and this villager's opinion that "it is difficult... to say no to the offering of two to five tabua" show that the family is more concerned with the cohesiveness of the community, or between these two families, than the opinion of the individual (the daughter). Ravuvu notes that if the girl refuses the offering, her family puts pressure publicly to accept the union "by applying some kind of physical force" (1983: 47). Thus, the daughter must consider not only her own aspirations for her future, but the future of the two families. If she refuses the offer, then her family will be ashamed, and according to Ravuvu, this can create ill feelings between the two families so that "the members of the two groups are unable to look one another in the eye for some time" (1983: 47).

After a formal wedding ceremony, the couple stays inside, and sleeps behind bed curtains made of masi, called "tau namu ni viti," for four days. Like other ceremonies associated with four nights, this is called the "bogiva," which literally means "four nights." During this time, traditionally the older women sit outside the house during the day, but every morning check the sheets to see if the new bride had been a virgin. Once they find that the woman was a virgin, by finding blood on the sheets, they will celebrate with a feast. (In Navolau, those that I spoke to about this did not know of a ritual bathing in the sea after the fourth night that Ravuvu describes.) This tradition is an old one, and for the most part not practiced any more. However, when there is a bogiva period, one villager explained how the family decides to have one:

The families decide in advance if they want to carry out the bogiva. The bride's parents will ask their daughter privately before she marries if she is still a virgin -- in which case the ceremony will probably be carried out. They'll do if they know if the daughter has not been "going around." They will celebrate as soon as they find the blood on the sheets. If they find blood on the sheet there will be a big celebration -- food, singing, and dancing. In most cases, if the girl is not a virgin, they will not perform the bogiva.

Although this ceremony is not practiced often these days, because of the decrease in dugucei marriages, as well as because most girls are not virgins when they marry, the idea of it shows that the bride's status and privacy (as an individual), is observed for the benefit of the community's celebrations. This life cycle celebration demonstrates that the individual will offer herself (her status) for the benefit of the community's celebration.

Although this is the traditional wedding ceremony, the elopement marriage, or the tukuni is practiced more commonly -- thus, the individual's interests are in some sense placed before that of the community's. Nevertheless, even in a tukuni, or elopement, in order for the parents to accept what their children have done, they publicly present and accept an offering so that the community sees that they embody humility and respect for the other family. In this offering, as Ravuvu notes, "A desire for the maintenance of good relations between the two groups is normally the main element of such ritualistic speeches" (1983: 47). Thus, what is stressed is good relations between the families, as opposed to how the individuals in the families actually feel. The individuals who have chosen each other, especially in the new wife's case, quickly meld into the new family, and now offer their efforts as members of this new group, symbolizing that a well working, cohesive family unit is more important than one's individual feelings.

As one may imagine, moving into a family as a new wife can be difficult for the individual. The villagers expect this new wife to play a certain role -- to be complaint, subservient, and to fit quietly into the workings of the family. This adjustment can obviously be hard, as a new bride (especially one coming from a new place) will likely experience homesickness, being the object of gossip, and possibly physical abuse. The new bride is being judged by her new community, and is trying to please not only her husband, but her new family and community as well. Here, one young man describes what qualities a new bride should have when moving into her husband's home:

For me, I just want to know how she's going to act in the family. If she will be acting good towards my parents, obeying the rules, or will she do what she wants? The first thing I will think about when bringing her back to the village is, "Can this girl help my parents?" If she could play that role, it's better, and it's attractive to me, because she would be helping my parents. When my parents are old, she will act like a mother, taking care of my parents, washing clothes, and cooking. If she can look after my family, that's the most important thing.

Although this young man is not married, he has a distinctive idea of the role that a new wife should have in his family, and thus in the village. She should be compliant to this servile role, and should look to please her husband's idea helping his family over paying attention to her own desires (in this young man's point of view).

It is no wonder that women find this time difficult and restraining, having to play out this subservient role expected of them. Here, one young woman describes what she felt like when first moving in with her husband's family:

Oh, you feel ashamed, afraid, it's a scary time. I felt shy at first -- like you want to help out, help with the cooking, the washing, cleaning, but you feel shy because you don't know how the family works, and you want to make sure you're doing everything right for them.

The new bride feels pressure to act in a certain way, as to please her in-laws. She stresses that she wanted to help the family in every way she could, and wanted to "do everything right for them," and that these feelings come before her feelings of being shy and timid in a new environment.

Even though a new bride feels awkward in her new village, even if she pleases her family, other villagers are still apt to gossip about her. Even adult women remember the gossip they experienced when they first moved into their husband's village. Neni, a forty-nine year old woman, remembers feeling shy because of the gossip. She recalls, "When you first come, you have to be a little bit shy. After a few months then you can feel more comfortable with them. But at first they talk about everything -- what clothes you wear, who you talk to, no matter what you do." Gossip is a powerful component to village life, and in the case with new brides, can be quite painful and constricting. Here, a young bride shares what it feels like to be gossiped about:

I don't always know what they are gossiping about, but I know that they are always gossiping. Now here, I can feel the pressure from these people. I can sense that they are gossiping about me. These girls in the village they get together, and they talk, talk, talk, and then one will come back to me and say, "Oh this one is saying a story about you doing this or that, and this is what I heard," that kind of thing. When my husband's relatives see me, they say to him, "Oh, your wife is this and that, you should talk to your wife, and tell her to watch out for how she acts."

The mixing around with these girls, I can't stand them. They are different from my friends at home. When the girls here talk to me, I don't know if they are going to be talking about me to someone else. Especially the older women, because they come around the house. One day I was sick, and lying in bed, and the next day I heard someone say, "Oh, Etonia's new wife, she's just laying down all day, she doesn't want to do any work." I feel like I can't trust anyone here, I can only trust myself. I can just smile and be nice, but I can't "yan" (hang out) with them. So I just stay home all the time, plus my husband told me to stay home, and not go around to other houses. Even when I just stay home they still talk about me. I don't know what business I have with them, I don't do anything wrong. I feel that what is between my husband and me is not their problem. So even if I just walk around people will talk about me, so I just have to sit down at home all the time.

Clearly, this young woman feels very restricted in the new village. Her husband's relatives have gossiped about her, and made her feel so constrained that she rarely even leaves the house. Her role in the family and in the village is one which she is not happy with, for no matter what she does, people gossip about her -- a device that reminds her of her obligatory subordinate role within the community. She feels that she can not trust anyone in the village, and must (by request of her husband and by fear of gossip) stay in the house doing the cooking, cleaning, and serving her husband and her in-laws. This life that the village people have cut out for her through their gossip is a social device for keeping her in her role of a new, subservient bride.

Facing physical abuse is another aspect of a new marriage which many young wives face. This perpetuates the wife's feeling constrained, and having very little control of her own life, in her new environment. Since men publicly control women in Fijian culture, early marriages are often a time when men privately exert physical control over their wives. One woman describes the early days of her marriage:

I was married when I was eighteen. That was a very hard time for me. My husband was always drunk, drunk every time. On Fridays he would go to work and get his wages that afternoon, so Fridays were always the worst time for me. When he'd come home he would get mad at me and rough me up. He'd go and drink, drink, drink, and finish all his money that he earned, so that I'd have no money for the children, no money for food. He didn't give me any money in my hand, so I just stayed at home and prayed.

She remembers these years of her life as very difficult, since she had little control over her own life. Even when trying to care for her children, she was limited in the amount she could provide for them, since her husband did not agree to her requests of money for the children. Similarly, a young bride shares a story of when her husband punched her recently. She tells the story to show that even as she is running away from his restraining ways, is convinced to return to the constraining ways of married life, as opposed to living with her own family:

Just this Saturday my husband and I fought, and he punched me up. The story was because I went down to [a nearby village] that Friday night with a bunch of the girls, for the fundraiser -- lots of people in the village went down that night. And he didn't want me to go. Then I felt bad about it because the whole next morning he doesn't want to talk to me, he doesn't want to have breakfast with us -- he went and had his breakfast somewhere else because he didn't want to be around me. Then I thought, "Why doesn't this guy want to be around me, he should talk to me, because he is the one who brought me here -- not his parents or the sisters or anything." Then I just stood up and ran away. I packed my bag, and I hid it under the bed, and I walked out.

I walked right down to [the village]. I didn't take the bag, I walked down by myself because it was daylight, and people could see. I was waiting for the bus in [the village], and then he came. All the people from there told him when he came that I was at the bus stop, because they're all related, you know? Big mouth, eh? Then in not nearly 10 minutes my husband was there. He came and said, "Come, we'll go home." And I told him that I didn't want to go home, but I was frightened too, because all his relatives are there, and this is not my place. If I was in my place [where I am from], then I know that these people are caring about me.

So we went, and I said, "See, I don't want to go and be your wife." Then he got angry and then he punched me up. He punched me in my stomach, in my head, in my side. If he had not come I would have gone. I was crying the whole time and was just thinking how much I want to go back home. I told him on that day, "If you are going to do this again to me, then I am not going to stay here anymore." And he promised me that he won't punch me again. So if he promised from his heart, we'll see. My parents, they would never touch me, or hit me, never, never. Never my brothers or cousins, never. It was the first time that someone punched me up like that, and I couldn't do anything about it.

In her description of this event, she contrasts how her husband treats her with how her family from home would treat her. She says that they would never harm her, and it is only since she has come to live with her husband that she has been physically abused. She also feels constrained by the people in the other village, since they are her husband's relatives, and told him where she was when she tried to leave. In her attempt to flee the restraining ways of life in the new village, she was not free to leave, because of the pressure she felt from her husband, and from those in the neighboring village.

The role which a new wife plays in a new community is one where she feels constrained. There are many expectations placed on her by her husband, his family, and other villagers, to be humble and obedient, and helpful in the new village. This new bride should be looking to help her new kin members, and if she does not (if she demonstrates instances where she puts her own desires first), this will be problematic, and she will face gossip and often physical abuse. These are both tools to keep a new wife playing the role which society expects her to play -- even though she may find herself feeling constrained and defenseless.

Having Children and Growing Up in Fiji

Pregnancy, the birth of a child, and child rearing events are occurences which, when looked at closely, allow one to better understand Fijian culture. These events, when celebrated, offer a view of how Fijians look at the world. In this section, I will again point out how through having and raising children, villagers in Navolau stress the idea of community over the individual. This section will also help mark the importance of family, as children are necessary to perpetuate the mataqali.

Pregnant women in Fiji must make their pregnancy known to the community, for there are various beliefs associated with hiding one's pregnancy, and how doing this will affect the community. Veresa, my host brother, shared one story with me about a natural way to tell if a woman is pregnant. He passed on the story to me that there are certain rivers and waterfall pools that pregnant women cannot swim in. If there is a waterfall pool, when the pregnant woman tries to swim up into the pool something will stop her from entering the pool, and no matter how much effort she exerts, she will not be able to enter the pool, whereas anyone else will be able to swim up to the fall with ease. As Ravuvu describes for Fiji more generally, villagers in Navolau also believe that if a woman hides the fact that she is pregnant, a sick person may become more sick, or a nursing mother will become sick in the presence of another woman who is hiding her pregnancy. Thus, the fact that Fijians place negative beliefs about not sharing one's pregnancy with the village emphasizes the Fijian cultural idea of the community's interest over the individual.

Having children is indeed celebrated, and once a mother gives birth, there is reason to celebrate, especially for the first child, for this symbolizes the continuation of one's family. The celebration involves the husband's family thanking the wife and her family for bearing children for his family. After the child is born, the mother should not leave the house for a distinct amount of time -- some say four nights, another "bogiva," and some say for one week. One informant described what her life was like after having her first child:

I didn't leave the house for one week. It's is considered "tabu," like a danger to walk around outside during this time. But actually for three months we can not really do anything -- we just stay at home with the baby, no cooking, no cleaning, just looking after the new born baby. After three months I looked like one European lady, because I was never outside! During these three months we can socialize, but must refrain from doing work, so mainly we just stay inside with the baby.

The idea of staying in the house for four nights to one week is associated with the time when the baby's umbilical cord is supposed to fall off. Traditionally, another "bogiva," or fourth night ceremony, is also held, welcoming the baby into the family at this time. This feast is formally presented to the maternal grandparents, thus introducing the baby to his vasu.

This woman said that she was only in the hospital for two days after giving birth. At the hospital, the doctor cut off the baby's umbilical cord, and gave it to her, as the umbilical cord can represent various things to Fijians. For her oldest child -- a daughter, she planted her umbilical cord under a coconut tree, to commemorate her daughter, and so the child will remember her home, if she leaves. She said that she did this so that this particular coconut tree will always provide for her daughter. The umbilical cord must be disposed of carefully and thoughtfully, "as to not adversely affect the future or personality of the child, but instead should enable him to acquire specific skills and other advantages," Ravuvu notes (1983: 55). Indeed, with her second child, a boy, this woman says, "I went to the wharf and threw it in the sea, so that he can have good luck with fishing, and catch many fish, because his father is also a fisherman."

Observing the way that children in Navolau #2 are raised certainly has taught me how Fijians think of children. Adults as well as older children show their love for babies quite affectionately. Babies are constantly being held by everyone -- as everyone wants to play with and hold a baby. Babies are accustomed to lots touching and playing; thus, the idea that they are a member of a large community is instilled from their earliest days. Men and women seem to love playing with babies, and when a baby is around, everyone offers some kind of play, or touch to the baby. From my observations, I have noticed that babies do not cry as much as American babies, and when they do start to cry, they are instantly attended to. My first day in Navolau a couple with a four month old baby came over. The baby was the center of attention, was brought around the village (even when the parents stayed in one house), and passed along for everyone to love and play with it.

Children in Navolau, although they do have guardians who are ultimately responsible for them, are the responsibility and the genuine interest of the entire community. Babies born to unmarried mothers often live with the mother's parents, and are consider the children they live with as real brothers and sisters. For example, my Nana and Tata have raised two of their daughter's illegitimate children from the time that they were babies. These children interact with, and think of Nana and Tata's real children (those that are their age) as their real brothers and sisters.

Although this is not uncommon, it is still difficult in many cases for mothers to leave their children. These mothers feel that even though they may have to work in the city to earn money for their child, being able to care for others (their children) is the most important thing. Thus, they feel that having their parents raise their child in the village will allow their child to be surrounded with love and caring relatives. Here, one single mother describes how she feels about her parents raising her son, while she is living away from the village:

I decided to move to Suva in 1992 so that I could make some money for Naibuka (her son). It was really hard for me to leave him and the rest of my family in the village. However, what I really want to do now with my life is come back to the village and look after Naibuka. Now, every time I leave the village after a weekend village, I just want to stay behind. I know that Nana and Tata give him so much, and are so caring, but I know that I'm a mother now, and that I have a role to play in his life -- I want to take care of him.

This twenty-eight year old mother has asked her parents to care for her child, yet they do not see it as an obligation. However, feels that she wants to take an active part in raising her child, especially since she sees being able to care for others as good. She notes that her parents "give him so much" and thus are so caring, and she too would like to care for her son in this way.

By observing a child's everyday pattern in the village, one can really get a sense of how Fijians think of their family and other members in the village. For example, often for two days, for a night, or perhaps just for a meal, children will wander to another home and stay. Parents do not worry, for they know that their child will be looked after, as someone's own child. For example, one day my Nana went to the farm, and Beka, her four year old grand-daughter, whom she was taking care of, was not at the house when she left. She said that if she comes back, to tell her to go to Mili's house for lunch. Nana did not seem at all phased by the fact that she did not know where Beka was. During a rainy weekend, one twelve year old boy stayed with us, playing games with other children, and eating and sleeping there until Sunday.

Children are expected to help their parents as soon as they can. Four year olds are expected to keep quiet in public situations, or when an elder is talking. They can help wash dishes, or bring their parents things. Once children are about eight or nine, they help with the animals -- feeding the pigs and changing the cows, and are expected to do anything the parents ask them to do.

Children in the village, although they are expected to stay quiet during church services, and are expected to be obedient to those elder than themselves, have a happy and non-constraining life. Here, an eighteen year old adolescent describes the care free days of her childhood:

Us kids, we were always playing. We'd play hide and seek, run around, climb mango trees, go and search for guavas, here and there. And then at that time we had cows and goats. Each child would choose one cow each, and one goat each, and then that cow, or that goat, or that guava tree matched up with each child, and we pretended that we owned them, and took care of our own. We would say, "I own that, no body should come and touch the guava from that tree," or, "I own that cow or goat," so then that person would take it for water and take care of it. Our parents thought it was cute when we did that, because then we'd be doing our chores too. We'd have fun with games like that.

As this excerpt demonstrates, Fijian children enjoy day to day life, and do not feel constrained by others in the village. Of course they are required to respect their elders, but even in their chores (like changing the cows), they feel free to make up stories, and are encouraged to be creative in their play.

As children grow into teenagers, they are still expected to help their family, and begin to feel an added responsibility to their parents or guardians who have raised them. Veresa, my 25 year old host brother, said that teenagers who are still in school must work very hard. The idea here is that their parents put a lot of pressure on them, by reminding them of how much it costs to go to school. There is a pressure to do well in school, so that they will be able to take care of their parents when they have a good job. He also said that teenagers must respect their parents, and that they cannot act like kids any more, and must respect and learn the traditional ways of life. For example, boys must act properly and respectfully at yaqona ceremonies. Teenagers are expected not only to do their school work, but are expected to fulfill a growing responsibility to their parents and community.

One informant, for example, is an eighteen year old young woman still schooling and living with her parents in the village. She has dreams of moving overseas, but also feels a commitment and desire to take care of her parents. Thus, this presents a dilemma for her when she contemplates her future. She explains:

Moving overseas, I don't see it as something I have to do, it's something that I want to do, but it would be hard for me to leave my parents. It's my long term dream, and I want t o make it come true. I have to somehow or the other, I have to get there. It will be especially hard if my parents are still here, because I worry about leaving them.

Leaving my parents, this is why it will be so hard to leave. It's also in my mind that once both of them pass away, then I'll get married or move overseas. I think that after I complete my education which is the most important thing to me right now, I should get a good job and pay back the debts from primary school, even since we were babies, they've bought clothing for us, and all these things, paying the school fees, and the bus fees. So taking care of them, giving something back in return always comes to mind. I think that helping them would be a higher priority than getting married. That's my first priority.

However, this idea is not unique to me -- this idea is one that I share with most of my friends. They think that it's important to take care of their parents once they complete their education. It's a common goal, but only a few people succeed in this kind of plan. Most of the cases, that's their plan, but they don't really do it. But myself, I want to make it a reality.

In this passage, she demonstrates how taking care of her parents and doing well in school are the two most important things to her. Although she has fantasies of living overseas, and believes that one day she actually will, taking care of her parents takes precedence over fulfilling her personal dreams of living overseas.

One young man told me that for kids that do not go to secondary school, they might start trying out alcohol at about age sixteen. However, for those in school, most don't go near it, because school is much too important to have alcohol interfere with it. He said that when he was in college there was a lot of pressure to try alcohol, as well as marijuana. He said that his friends would always get together, and tell him to meet at a certain place at night, but he would make sure that he didn't go near that place at that time, because he never wanted to get involved with that when in school. However, when he was about 23 he said he "gave in," and started to drink once in a while.

Another anxiety that teenagers face is how to approach the opposite sex. This same man said that in school, the main way to get a girl's attention is to write her a love letter. If she replies, then the two would set up a time to meet, but if not, then that is the end of it. He said that at school, it was mostly just a few guys that always had the girlfriends, and the others would "just talk a lot." He said that in the village people don't write love letters to each other, because everyone knows each other. He said he thought there was more of this pressure during his schooling, than there is while he is home in the village.

Thus, teenagers go through some of the same emotions and pressures that American teenagers go through, but unlike most middle class American teenagers, they are also expected to think about how they will care for their parents in the future. Thus, teenagers should put their family's expectations first, before their own desires.

Child birth, and child rearing, as well as what it is like to grow up in a Fijian village, indeed demonstrate how Fijians emphasize the community, and the importance of family over the individual. Growing up in a Fijian village, a child learns that an individual puts the family or community before his or her interests, and must show obedience and humility to the family and community. Parents try and teach their children qualities which will teach them the respectful ways of the village. Although parents describe child rearing as difficult at times, it is a central part to their life as well. Here, one older man describes what is important in child rearing:

As a father, I think that it is very important to raise a family, and to take good care of them. The most important thing that I try to do is to educate the children up to the highest standard that I can. If I can provide this for them, and can teach them to know God, then I think that they will turn out to be good people in the community. Looking after the family is a big job, especially a family as big as this one -- we have to find the food, the clothing, and the money for their education. It really adds up with so many children.

Also, as an older member of the village, I think that it is important to teach the younger people some of the Fijian ways. It is important to teach the younger people respect -- they should respect the elders of the community, as well as the church. This is our Fijian ways, and that is why it is good to live in the village, because in the city the children do not always learn these things. We elders have to set the example for the young ones in the village. What we tell them will lead them into their future, it will help them with their decision making in the future, because they will know the traditional Fijian ways. When we old people die, they will know what to do. We know that they will have taken it from us, and learned what they way is, what they are supposed to do in life.

Here he explains that not only are sending children to school and teaching them about the Bible important, but educating them about traditional Fijian ways while raising them is important to maintain the Fijian custom and ideals of respect. Thus, when thinking about raising children, this man incorporates teaching children to learn and respect the Fijian value system so that it may perpetuate through generations. In thinking of raising children this way, he considers not only how his own children will act, but how village traditions will continue for generations to come. This exemplifies how he is thinking beyond the behavior and good fortune of his own children, but of the well being of the community in the future.

Growing up in the village, learning rules for respect, and traditional Fijian values is something that children who grow up in the village learn automatically. However, one twenty-seven year old woman who grew up in the city and moved recently to her father's village for the first time describes what it felt like to learn the traits children learn as they mature in the village:

In the village you have to be careful of the way to behave -- the way to talk to someone older, and the way you act at the village meeting. When the "turaga ni koro" (the village spokesperson) calls for the meeting, everybody should be there. All the youths should be at the youth meeting. All these things show respect for the village ways. It's good to learn these things because it is an important part of our culture.

Coming to know about weaving mats has been something new for me since I moved to the village. I didn't know how to do this before, but when I moved to the village I learned how to weave, how to fish, how to collect firewood, all these things. It's made me proud to learn these things. The women that taught me how to do all these things are my family, so it has made me feel proud that they were passing on the traditions through me -- through the family, so that I may pass them down to the younger generations.

Although she had a difficult time adjusting to village life initially, she found that once she overcame feeling uncomfortable in the village, she found village life rewarding. Learning the traditional ways of the village has made her feel that she is taking part in a community project -- an ongoing heritage. It has made her feel proud that the women are "passing on the traditions through" her. She feels satisfied in acting as a branch of the community, as opposed to perusing her individuality.

Funerals

The death of a villager, or family member, also signifies the importance of familial bonds, yet at the same time demonstrates the economic strain it can have on individuals. Thus funerals demonstrate that in the Fijian world view, a family's cause is more important to the individual's benefit. Like other life cycle events, a funeral marks the passage from one stage of life to another, and is certainly celebrated by the community on behalf of the deceased individual.

The burial is conducted by the mother's people, or the vasu, yet more of a financial burden falls on the husband's mataqali (if a woman dies), or on the deceased's mataqali who are the hosts. The person is buried at their own mataqali (and a woman is buried at their husband's mataqali), but the vasu come to the village to perform the burial. For example, one young woman in the village describes the decision of her mother's people to come to her mother's funeral:

We asked my mother's family if they wanted to put on the arrangements for the funeral. They said that they did, so we waited a few days until they got here. A bus full of people arrived from Lautoka for the funeral. They (the vasu) organized everything, but we cooked the food and hosted the guests.

For the death of a man as well, his vasu come to the burial. During a funeral, like other life cycle rituals, gifts are brought. Every member that comes to the funeral must bring yaqona, as an offering to stay for the funeral. Additional gifts such as tabua, mats, cows and pigs for slaughtering and preparing for the feast, and today money, are given to the family. However, all of these gifts are expected to be reciprocated -- not the same thing to each person, but something of a similar value. During the funeral of the woman described above, she describes, "A member of my mother's vasu sits by the door all day, and writes down what everybody brings." Thus, even though gifts are brought, "after it all the burden is still left with the individual," as one man explains. Indeed, the fact that those paying for the funeral give back to those who came to the funeral leaves them with very little to help pay for the funeral. Since the vasu are the people that officially bury the body, they receive back a large share of the mats and tabua that are brought to the funeral.

It is true -- with all this giving going on, families paying for a funeral end up with a lot less money then what they started with. However, there is also a sentiment among Fijians that funerals bring people together and reaffirm kinship ties -- no matter how expensive they are. And to them, this is worth the material cost -- reaffirming the idea that family is more important than the individual. Ravuvu says that when death occurs, it "reaffirms existing social and political links and generates new vigor in forgotten and dying relationships" (1983: 62). Indeed, funerals bring together people that have been separated by geography, as in the case with Ase's mother's funeral. It is common for bus loads of family members to rally together and come for a funeral. N. Rika, in his article "Is Kinship Costly?", describes his experience attending an expensive, yet personally fulfilling funeral:

I came back from Taveuni after my brother's funeral very much poorer in terms of dollars and cents. But I returned with a deep sense of peace and joy and satisfaction, even pride at having to responded to the call of kinship: feeling would have been denied had I not gone, or if I had decided not to dig to the rock-bottom of my treasure chest. We lost in material wealth but gain immeasurable peace of mind and a deep feeling of group solidarity and cohesion. (1975: 31)

Thus funerals are perhaps the most important ritual in a life cycle, not because of the individual that has died, but because a funeral brings family together, like no other ritual, and thus reminds those attending, how important their family actually is to them.

Even though a funeral lasts only three to four days in rural areas, the official mourning period lasts one hundred nights after the death. During this mourning period people refrain from certain things out of respect and remembrance for the deceased person. For example, for 100 nights, men refrain from shaving their beards, the widow often does not cut her hair (and hair styles have always been important to Fijians), women may refrain from making mats if it is something that they enjoy, and some even give up drinking yaqona. After 100 nights a feast is prepared, family members gather from all over, and the official mourning period is over. However, during these 100 nights, various other nights are recognized, where meals are prepared, yaqona is served, and sometimes stories are told about the deceased, in remembrance of him or her. These nights of remembrance usually occur four nights, (another bogiva), ten nights, 20 nights, 50 nights, and 80 nights after the death of the individual. After the 100 nights festival these smaller nights of remembrance stop, as the 100 nights marks the end of the official mourning.

One morning, a few days before a family was to be celebrating the 100 nights of their son who had died in this thirties, I came across a family prayer, led by a minister. I walked into the house at around 9:00 in the morning, and was led into the house through the kitchen, as opposed to the normal entrance for the house. Sitting on the floor in the room off of the kitchen were the deceased's Tata at the top of the room, along with the Methodist minister, and the women sitting in a semicircle formation closer to the door. This is the traditional, respectful way to sit. The minister prayed and spoke to the family. The Nana, and Nana lailai (mother's younger sister) cried a bit between their "amens," and muttering of "Jisu." The Tata looked down and concentrated on what the minister said. The event lasted about an hour, and was very touching. Although I did not know what the minister was saying (since he spoke in Fijian), I too cried when I looked at the family members grieving the loss of their deceased son. Although there were only six or seven family members present, the support that they gave each other, by holding hands, and collectively praying for the deceased, and each other displayed a strong feeling of support.

Funerals and deaths within a family or village are events which are obviously held on behalf of an individual for the community. As within most cultures, the gathering of people for a funeral is done out of remembrance for the deceased individual. Here in Fiji, funerals are major expenses, since in most cases, so many family members come to the funeral, and Fijians feel such a strong responsibility to give gifts, as this is what their culture dictates. In today's times, with the emphasis on money, and a capitalistic world view integrating into the traditional way of life, funerals can really be a major expense. However, the sense of kinship ties, and how the family members feel when reunited is obviously more important to them than the monetary loss. Although a kinsmen has deceased, thus creating a physical gap between a mother's people and a father's people, the funeral brings together both families, so that they may reaffirm ties with one another. The individual for which the event is being held has passed away (by nature of a funeral), yet those involved in the ritual experience gain, as N. Rika points out, "a feeling of belonging together and possessing a common ancestry and identity" (Rika 1975: 29). Thus, a death of a family member leaves a break in the connection between a father's and mother's people, however, the lamentation of the individual's death results in a strong assertion of the family's bond with one another.

The Village "Adi"

The village annual festival, or "adi", is an event where one can observe how important kinship ties are to Fijians. A sense of what family means to people can be observed, since relatives who are living in towns or cities come home for the festival, and family members revel in each other's presence. Although the festival's purpose to raise money for the village (essentially, it is a village wide fundraiser), villagers living away from home use it as a time to return to the village and be with their family. During the adi in Navolau, I was impressed with the emphasis that family members put on seeing one another. The festival was not only a time for the villagers to pool their money together for the benefit of the community, or the village, but also, it was a time for family members to come to reunite -- perhaps one of the most important ideas in the Fijian ethos.

The Navolau adi occurred this year on Friday, October 8th, in correlation with the Fiji Independence Day long weekend celebration. The Adi opened with the village youth presenting yaqona to the elderly men of the community. This presentation of yaqona, opening a festival is called a "dola ni soqo." Both groups were in formal sulus, and casual dress shirts -- and they all sat cross legged around the "tanoa" (yaqona bowl), sitting respectfully, looking down -- the youth behind the tanoa, and the elders in front. The youth opened the festival not only by offering the yaqona to the elders, but by offering their donation to the village fund. Over the past few months, each fundraiser of drinking yaqona that the youth has is collected, and on this morning the total was offered to the elders, and the village. The sum was F$1003.50, and was announced over a megaphone so that everyone in the village could hear the amount offered. Upon announcing the amount everyone in the village cheered, and the presentation was complete. One of the youth group women was so excited, and charged with the idea that they youth came up with and donated so much money, she kept saying, "Wow, 1,000 dollars contribution, 1,000 bucks! " Indeed, it is impressive.

Meanwhile, the women and the youth women were cooking, after which most had their baths, and went to sit under the bolobolo. The youth women prepared one meal for all the youths at one house, situated below the community hall, in the middle of the village, and after the announcement of the one thousand dollar-plus donation, the loudest cheer could be heard from this house.

The purpose of a village adi is to raise money for the village. A set amount of money, which is decided in advance is ideally donated by each household or mataqali. In the case of this year's Navolau adi, each household was asked to contribute two hundred dollars, and the purpose of the fundraising was to build the "talatala," or village minister his own home. (As he is from a different village, and lives in a villager's home now as a guest). In the past, mataqali were asked to donate as a group, but this year the donations were done by household. Thus, over the course of the day, different households donated to the official table (a table set in front of the community hall, and run by the youth). The amount donated was announced, the people cheered, and the amount, in correlation with the household name was written on a board for everyone to see. The day consisted of people sitting around, listening to the donations, telling stories with one another -- "talanoa" -- and of course informally drinking yaqona. There were several tanoa set up, and the groups, consisted of one all women group, two mixed groups of men and women, and a group at the end with the elder men. There was not a specific placement of where certain people had to sit, except for that it was appropriate for all the elder men in the village to sit together, separate from the rest, because of their status in the village. Inside the hall, the youth men had their own yaqona circle.

As the festival was winding down, relatives from Suva, Nadi, Sigatoka, Ba, Tavua, and other places arrived. Nearly all of the relatives were young, unmarried daughters and sons who are working or attending school in a city. They were greeted at the road when they got off of the bus by family members and other villages. During this time, some people found it more exciting listen to the stories their newly arrived brothers, sisters and cousins were telling, while some remained outside until night time drinking yaqona. The festival ended with a closing prayer, after the prizes were awarded to the top four donators, and the festival was officially over once everybody came together, pooled their money together, and donated to the village cause. But in my mind, this was just the beginning of the family bonds secured during this festival weekend.

Relatives came in by the handful during this festival weekend. Some wrote ahead and told their families that they would be coming, while some arrived unannounced. The three day weekend (Saturday, Sunday and Monday -- Fiji Independence Day) was happily spent by visiting other families in the village, and spending time with one's own family. Merilita -- the third oldest child in our family arrived Saturday morning. She came with soda and cookies, for the children. When her father came back from the farm Saturday morning, she said, "Oh, look at my father, walking around so dirty, in those dirty clothes" (his farming clothes), to which Tata replied, "Oh, these city people, they don't know how to work on a farm now, they just go buy everything." Indeed, the city dwellers complained about living in the city, and talked about how wonderful life was in the village. As one returning young woman said, "While I'm here I love spending time with the family, it's so wonderful to get to see them, I really miss them. Also, when I come back I make sure to go to the cassava patch and bring some cassava back to Nadi, because there I have to pay for it, and here it's free."

Saturday night of this festival weekend our entire family sat around after dinner and told stories. Nana, Tata, Lucy, Junior, Peni, Naibuka, Merilita, myself, and the two elder brothers, two came in and out -- Veresa and Ilimo enjoyed each other's stories and company. Nana informed the family members living elsewhere about me, as I could hear her mention my name, before everyone looked at me and laughed, or sighed fondly. Sharing stories from their life in the city was also important, as everyone is eager to understand how the other people are coping. When there was a quiet moment (of which there were few), Tata urged us on to tell another story. This idea of telling stories, "talanoa," or "'alanoa," in Rakiraki dialect, solidifies one's relations with each other. Examples of the types of stories they told were, stories about me -- the "visitor" in the village, stories about Tata's days at the farm, and stories about their concern for their youngest child who has been sick recently.

There is a large emphasis in Fijian society for people to tell stories in a gathering like this. When examined, this concept allows one to understand the Fijian ethos a bit. Telling stories, or sharing one's life stories solidifies family bonds, as it members inform each other of what has been happening in their lives -- thus, they do not lose touch with one another. Telling stories was what the majority of the villagers spent the festival weekend doing, thus, the festival is an event which solidifies family bonds and one's affiliation with the village.

Presentation of Gifts -- A Window into the Fijian Ethos

In all life cycle events, gifts are a central part of the ritual or ceremony. Gifts may be presented to the individual(s), (as in the case of a newly married couple), however, gifts to other members of the community, or to another family or community are also, if not more important. In a wedding, funeral, and birth of a child, when people come to celebrate, gifts of yaqona, food, and other material objects are offered.

Yaqona (kava), a drink made from the crushed powder of a piper plant mixed with water, is offered at every life cycle ceremony, along with other events in everyday life Fijian life. Formal yaqona drinking begins when the one mixing the drink claps with his hands cupped three times. This type of clapping, "cobo", is done for both informal and formal yaqona drinking. To accept the yaqona one gives one cobo, and the other group claps (cobo) three times for one person, and two times for the next, and continues in this pattern. The significance of this is that the first person served plays the part of the chief (or most respected person present), and that the next person (the one receiving two claps) is the "talking chief," or the one who speaks for the chief. This formula continues down the line for those drinking the yaqona. This is practiced for formal ceremonies, but in informal situations is sometimes practiced out of habit. However, the idea of clapping once before accepting yaqona is consciously performed at any drinking of yaqona, for it signifies one is accepting the drink. The clap is reduced to perhaps a tap on one's one leg, or jokingly a tap on someone else's leg, but once the person claps, the "bilo" (coconut cup) of yaqona is theirs. In more informal situations, members try to offer their cup to others, out of respect -- this plays out for some amusing situations at times. Once, at an informal "grog" party in someone's home, the first guest male guest arrived, and was asked to sit at the top of the tanoa (the seat of respect). He refused, as he did not want to accept such a serious position. The first bowl of yaqona was offered to him, and he did everything he could to refuse it and offer it to his host out of respect. The dialect of jokingly fighting why the other party should accept the first bowl finally ended after about five minutes of bantering, and he reluctantly clapped his hand against his knee and accepted the bilo.

Presentations for formal yaqona ceremonies include, for example, a "sevusevu," when a person is coming to a new place; a "tatau," when someone is leaving a place; a "bogiva," or a fourth night ceremony (this can include four nights after birth -- when a baby is named, fourth nights after a death, or four nights after a circumcision); a "cere", when a new possession is brought to the village and blessed; and during a marriage and during a funeral.

During a "sevusevu," the person arriving, or his or her talking chief presents his or her host with an offering of yaqona (either in powder form, or as the root which will then be crushed). A sevusevu asks permission for someone to come to a new place. It asks the host to look after the new person, as if he or she is a member of the family, the host will provide, food, drink, and shelter. The host also knows that if this person does anything wrong, that it will be as though their family is doing something wrong -- thus, the host must look after the new person as a member of their family.

The sevusevu is basically a scripted speech, and start off by saying that one is offering yaqona to a person, who is under a specific chief. For example, in this district under the "Tui," or chief Navitilevu, all sevusevu will start like this:

Vakaturaga vua na Tui Navitilevu. E Dua na yaqona lailai au tabera saka tu qo nai sevusevu.

It is difficult to translate this directly in English. "Vakaturaga" is said to let the person know that they will be talking about a tui, or a very high ranking person. When a sevusevu is done in this area, the presenter is saying, "I come to you under the Tui Navitilevu." He will continue saying, "I come to you as one, holding in my hand one small parcel of yaqona." The presenter will say that they have one small presentation of yaqona in the presence of the chief, to respect the chief -- for even if they had a large presentation of yaqona, it would not be equal to his status. A sevusevu is an offering for one to enter a village or a house. However, another presentation, declaring one's purpose is often also exchanged with an offering of say, more yaqona or a tabua. For example, when a husband's group wishes to perform a bulubulu, they will first present a sevusevu when entering the wife's parent's home, and then will present the tabua to atone for the elopement.

The presentation of yaqona at all these life cycle events reminds Fijians of the traditions which they come from. Even today, when someone arrives for a weekend, the talk of "coming under your chief" is still discussed. These ceremonies remind Fijians of their traditional past, as well as help secure their status with one another. Here, one older man explains his views on the importance of yaqona ceremonies, and yaqona:

These ceremonies make people's relations with each other continue, to remind us that we are "dua," or as one. It shows us that we are Fijians. If we stopped presenting this yaqona, or if we stopped having grog, we as Fijians would be lost, because this is what we base every event on.

Thus, yaqona drinking not only is used as offerings during all life cycle events, (which shows in its own right that it is a central part of the society, thus what it symbolizes is a part of the world view), it also symbolizes to Fijians their traditional past, as well as their identity. He explains that yaqona drinking reminds Fijians of their identity, and they are "dua," or "as one." Although Fijians state this -- that they are "as one," when closing the sevusevu, and before drinking the grog, there is also a stratified order or receiving and accepting the yaqona. The most older and most respected figures, and the ones that receive the yaqona first, sit at the top of the tanoa (kava bowl), while the younger men, and less respected figures sit closer to the tanoa, or behind it.

Food

Also at every life cycle ceremony, food or animals killed for food is a part of the offering between families. As Ravuvu says, "No ceremonial function is considered complete without a presentation of food or 'magiti'" (1983: 42); thus, the food that is presented is the best (and often the most) that one can provide, for "in any form of goods exchanged, Fijian values emphasize the principle of giving the best and the most" (1983: 42). If the host offers as much as he or she possibly can, he may lose materially, but gain socially, since such a high emphasis is placed on giving as much as possible during meal times. For example, a host will always offer more than enough food for the guest to eat, and although it may be impossible for the guest to finish this food, the host feels satisfied that he or she has provided. My Tata often places huge bowls of rice, pitchers of juice, and sometimes plates of biscuits in front of me, teasing that I have to eat the entire portion. Of course they don't expect the guest to eat as much as is offered, and the food, of course is perishable, but "what endures is the capacity to mobilize and regenerate the social relationships that supply the goods" (Becker 1995: 65). Thus, food is also an instrument present at every life cycle ritual, which solidifies and confirms Fijians' relations with each other.

Yaqona, food, and other gifts such as mats, tabua, and even voivoi (the plant used to make mats) are used so that Fijians may solidify bonds within, and outside of their community. These events stress that although the individual may lose materially, their family or community's status will be heightened the more they think of others, and not themselves.

On to Chapter 5...