Kavala Church Day Janet Mid July "Bula, bula, bring your dinghy over here." Jovesa gestured to a little beach off the end of the seawall.
We'd come in to the village early Sunday morning, to help fix Jovesa's outboard pull-chord, before going to church. While the men communed down at the boats Joe's oldest daughter Lusia invited me up to their house. It was a typical village house, a kitchen, living room and two bedrooms, no internal doors. Lusia gestured for me to sit on couch.
I pointed at some lemons on the kitchen table in the other room.
"Could I gather some of those?" I'd come with a list of local produce to procure.
"Veronika," Lusia called. Her 10 year-old sister came running inside. "Go and get Janet some lemons," she ordered in rapid Fijian.
"Last week I picked some basil at a house near here, could we go and get some more?" I asked.
"What is basil?" Lusi asked.
"It has a strong sweet smell and Fijians use it in a tea for coughs." "Ahh," she nodded. "Come." We gathered sprigs of basil and a bunch of bele, a green leaf used like spinach. As we passed a baigani bush, eggplant, Lusia picked half a dozen small black fruit and added them to my bag.
*** Down at the seawall David and Joe had made good progress on repairing the pull-chord.
David looked up "Time to go?" I nodded. He went up to the house to put on his Sunday best. Laughter rang from inside as David modeled his clothes for the women, and consulted about what was most appropriate to wear to church. Trousers not sulu, Shirt tucked in, and not out was the verdict.
We arrived at the other side of the bay at the same time as Jean Pierre and Dana.
They had done sevusevu here so proudly showed us around "their village". We'd come across to Kavala Village to attend a combined church service. On the first Sunday of each month Methodists from the several villages in the bay gather at one or other of the villages in turn.
We were seated in the front row of the high roofed, whitewashed, plaster house of God. The first bars of the choir's opening song resonated in my chest. When the base came in I felt it down to my toes. The sopranos followed and lifted my soul up to the rafters.
"I can see how gospel music helps people find God," I thought. Two hours soon passed with song after song of stunning choral music.
We'd been invited to join the Solotavui Village contingent for lunch afterwards.
"The host village puts on the food," Luisa explained, "and each village eats in a separate house." Just as we were heading for the 'Solotavui' house we got invited by the pastor to what turned out to be the VIP lunch. He led us through the village, stopping for us to shake hands and say hello to half the congregation.
Taking our shoes off we entered the village community hall where a long cloth lay across the floor, set with crockery and cutlery, and groaning with plates of food.
"Please sit," the pastor gestured to the floor at one end of the 'table'. Once we were seated everyone else sat. One of the pastors said grace and indicated for us to start. The food vibrated with freshness. No food miles incurred here. First, fried fish and rourou (taro leaf). It swam in coconut cream, probably grated and squeezed less than an hour ago. So succulent and sweet, melt in the mouth. I finely chopped a red chili and added it to my bowl with a squeeze of lemon, as I'd learned to do at lunch at the chief's. A few people nodded approvingly. My neighbour sawed off a hunk of taro for me to dip into the juices. Next I tried the ota. This is a fern similar to baby punga fern fronds in New Zealand. Crisp and crunchy it was served raw in coconut cream with tinned mackerel. I went back for more.
"What's that?" I pointed to some dark meat on a saucer.
"Wild pork," my neighbour told me.
"From up there?" I pointed at the hills behind the village. "With a gun?" "No, with a spear." Other bowls were laden with chop suey and curry, but teeming with the ubiquitous noodle, so I passed on those.
Over the course of the meal a number of other people wandered in the room and sat down behind the diners. Most people got up when they had finished so others could take their place but we were told to stay put.
When we had finished eating the food was moved to one end of the cloth and the ladies from the kitchen brought us tea and large chunks of cake topped with pumpkin custard.
Finally the cooks sat down and ate what was left of the main course. We lingered much of the afternoon and motored back to the boat replete.

4A Lovo for lunch Kavala Janet Jully 26 "What's the menu for?" I asked gesturing out the door. Taped to the wall at the shop entrance was a notice, mostly written in Fijian, including 'menu' and '$20'.
"It's for a lovo," the girl behind the counter said, "food cooked in the ground." Her mother told us "Whole chicken, fish, palusami, and raw fish, at noon on Friday." *** We were at the local bread shop in Kavala Bay. We'd motored along the edge of a bank of seemingly impenetrable mangroves when an opening appeared suddenly. Peering into the muddy water we monitored the depth to make sure we didn't catch the outboard propeller on the bottom. After paddling the last few metres we tied the dinghy to a tree, and asked the first person we saw where the shop was.
"Up there," said the woman, "blue house." She pointed to a muddy track.
The locating of shops here is very different to how we do it in New Zealand. Foot traffic - not a consideration. The shop in the bay near where Navire is anchored is a 15-minute walk from the nearest village.
"Is the shop over there because it has a wharf?" I had asked Luisa, our local host.
"No, that is where their family land is." She said matter of factly.
Same with the bread shop, up the back of three other houses and no signage down on the road to say its there. I guess everyone knows where it is.
*** On Friday our French-Canadian neighbours, from yacht Vanille, motored over to join us for the lunch outing. On the way across the bay we stopped in at Solotaviu Village to deliver a chocolate cake to Luisa and her family, a gift to say thank you for their help. This village seemed moderately prosperous (from yaqona production) and giving basic food items like tinned corned beef didn't seem appropriate. But a cake, we thought, is a treat because most people don't have conventional ovens.
Luisa was out so we gave the cake to her mother. Within seconds ten small children materialized. They sat on the mat in two rows like they were at school, eyes glued to the cake the whole time we were there. Later we heard that almost every child in the village had a piece.
Motoring on we arrived at the rocky inlet near the shop. We guided Jean-Pierre and Dana up the muddy path to the blue house. Paying our $20 we sat outside on a concrete slab we discussing where we would eat the food. Two women emerged from the shop with our 'lovo', two baskets woven from coconut palms loaded with foil wrapped food, each topped with a pink hibiscus flower.
Before we'd had a chance to unload our plates and cutlery and set up our picnic on the concrete the women said "Wait!", and dashed inside. Moments later they came out carrying a table between them and proceeded to set it up under a little shelter on the edge of the platform. Then out came four chairs and a tablecloth.
They understood kaivlangi needs.
Table set, I undid the foil bundles releasing smoky meaty flavours. A whole chicken, a piece of rather well done tuna, the best palusami (taro leaves cooked in coconut) I've ever had, a whole breadfruit, and two separate containers, one with kokoda, marinated fish, and the other cassava in caramel sauce. As we were packing up one of the women came to chat. It transpired that the lovo was a fundraiser. Each family with children at the school had to contribute $480 for various repairs. So much for Bainamrama's free education policy.