Fiji Circumnavigation

In the last 3 short weeks, we circumnavigated the Fijian archipelago.  We could just as easily have spent 3 months or 3 years cruising Fiji, as many sailors do. And now we know why.  Cruising around Fiji is simply exquisite.  Exquisitely beautiful and warm – both outside and in. 

Outside, the lagoons and passes and harbours. The mangrove marshes and coconut groves, the Nawa Nawa and Vesi forests.

The shapes of the islands themselves, alpha-shapes like the Zed of Vanua Balavu and the cursive W of Fulaga, with their fringing reefs and scattering of small islets near shore. 

The topography of the ocean floor gives Fijian waters their spectrum of colours – all of them blue.

Some of it surprising, all of it stunning – sometimes it literally takes your breath away as you sail around the next headland.

Our friends Jacques and Kim flew into Savusavu in late June and hopped on Turtlebones as our guests for a 3-week sailing adventure.  Today we’re in the capitol Suva, where they will hop on a bus back to Nadi and the International Airport on the other side of the island.  

From Savusavu on Vanua Levu (the big island), we sailed clockwise around the Lau islands.  First, heading eastward to Vanua Balavu.  Then southward to Fulaga.  And from there, westward to Matuku.  Finally, from Matuku, we continued northwestward and arrived at Suva on Viti Levu (big Fiji).  In all, 530 nms (980 kms), broken up pretty evenly among four relatively-short overnight passages.

Here in the southern hemisphere, the trade winds blow gently and consistently year-round from the southeast towards northwest.   Our first passage from Savusavu to the Lau group was almost due west, just ever-so-slightly southwest – in other words, smack into the wind – no way to avoid it.  We waited for the lightest possible winds to set out, but still, we took it on the nose and motored all the way – and all with just one engine because our cranky port engine was misbehaving again! 

At daybreak, we were able to unfurl the genoa, and we motor-sailed for the last few hours of the 20-hour crossing.  Mercifully, the wind remained fairly light throughout the passage, and the seas were not high.  But still, beating to weather is beating to weather – and it’s uncomfortable.  Our guests were frankly rattled by the experience. Discussions ensued about whether to continue.  Thankfully (for me), after a few days at anchor and several short and pleasant daytime hops around picturesque anchorages on Vanua Balavu, the hearty crew decided to soldier on.

The second leg was much easier.  Now southbound, we were able to sail most of the way – thank you, trade winds! – and we motor-sailed the rest.  Still, it was a close reach – meaning, the wind was in front of us, not on the nose, but not on the beam either – 45° port side.  Which translates into “still a bit uncomfortable”, especially for our guests.  But still they soldiered on, and we were rewarded with the delights of the Ogeas and Fulaga islands.

The last two legs of our Fiji-journey-with-friends were altogether different.  Classic trade wind sailing.  Winds blowing gently and persistently, from almost behind us, but not quite – 140° port side.  We loped along so smoothly – like riding a horse at an effortless canter. Long easy strides over the gentle sea swell.  Downright soothing – like being rhythmically rocked in a great big 43-foot cradle. For me, the biggest challenge of that entire passage was fending off sleepiness during my night watches.  Logbook entry 0300 hours: “clear sky, full moon, champagne sailing”.

Many (maybe most?) Fijian islands are surrounded by a “fringing reef” – meaning a coral reef that encircles the island. The fringing reef might grow very close to shore – it might butt right up against the land, but more often it leaves a “back-reef” that creates a lagoon between the reef and the land. The fringing reef protects the coastline from erosion and protects island villages by deadening the worst effects of high seas.

The lagoons, in turn, create important habitat for a diverse range of marine life. And for us cruisers, the lagoons often provide near-perfect anchorages – calm shallow water, sandy or muddy bottom, a short dinghy ride to beaches, villages and other island delights. Fantastic place to explore by kayak or by mask and snorkel. But first we must navigate through a reasonable gap or “pass” in the reef.

The Fulaga pass is long and narrow, and sometime treacherous. But it was benign when we entered. We timed it perfectly to make the pass at “slack tide” – meaning, minimal tidal current, when there is neither a flood tide rushing in, nor a fast ebb tide spilling out. In fact, the day before, approaching high tide, we had sailed on past our intended destination of Fulaga and continued on instead to the Ogeas – precisely to avoid what could’ve been a challenging arrival at the Fulaga pass. Similarly, upon leaving Fulaga, we did a reconnaissance run in the dinghy and decided to kill a few extra hours in the lagoon, snorkeling and beachcombing, to wait out the fast flood tide – water rushing in through the pass like the Elora Gorge after a heavy rain.

Navigating into and out of Matuku was a different kind of difficult. Although the pass is shorter and wider and therefor less challenging than the Fulaga pass, the Mutuku reef grows very near to shore, and once inside, the safe refuge of the lagoon is a little more elusive. Continuous careful eyeball navigation is needed to find the sandy bits for anchoring and to avoid the reef that lurks just below the surface. To make matters worse, our Navionics chart was completely useless here.

However, the Google Earth satellite map was brilliant. It showed the topography of the ocean floor all around the fringing reef and in the so-called lagoon. In calm and sunny conditions, much is obvious from the helm, and even moreso from the bow. Bill is particularly talented at reading the water from the bow or from the roof of the cabin, especially if the sun is behind us. But under cloudy skies and in choppy waters – we experienced both in Matuku – eyeball navigation is not enough, and satellite imagery gives us a huge advantage.

But even so, when exiting at low tide and following our inbound track precisely, I still managed to put us down port side onto a small reef. Gently enough, I think – I hope – the impact cracked the collar on our (brand-new) port rudder, but we seem to be functionally unscathed.

It’s hard to believe, but the physical beauty of these islands is matched pound-for-pound by the warmth and genuine hospitality of the Fijian people who inhabit them. 

Now officially called the iTaukei people (literally means “owners of the land”), the original Fijians are thought to be the “Lapita people” who migrated from western Melanesia (today, Papua New Guinea, Vanuatu, Solomon Islands) more than 3,000 years ago, later mixing with Polynesian people from Rotuma, Tonga and Samoa.  It’s not clear though, and there’s much disagreement about where the original Fijians came from. Some believe they originated from Egypt or migrated here from other parts of Africa, and they point to undeniable physical likeness to support their claim.

The iTaukei people represent just 63% of Fiji population – there is a huge minority of Indo-Fijians, a full 33%, with the rest being European, Chinese or mixed ancestry, But in the Lau islands and other rural parts of Fiji, virtually 100% of the inhabitants are indigenous Fijians. Overwhelmingly Christian, the vast majority are Methodist, with RC as a distant second, and Seventh Day Adventists and others making up the rest. Across Oceania, Fijians were traditionally reputed as formidable warriors and ferocious cannibals.

The zeal of Christian missionaries who came to Fiji in the mid-1800s is said to have been motivated primarily by the goal of extinguishing tribal warfare and cannibalism. By all accounts, conversion and colonialism was swift and successful – within 20 years, cannibalism and tribal warfare were largely extinguished. The iTaukei we met were, to a person, devout practising Christians – acknowledging cannibalism only as a practice of their distant ancestors but keeping stories of tribal warfare alive in living memory.

All of the islands we visited were inhabited, and each one contained a few small villages – “small” meaning as few as 45 or as many as 300 residents per village.  The villages are home to indigenous Fijians whose ancestors have inhabited these Lau islands for thousands of years. 

Village life follows traditional patterns, even to this day.  These villages have seen enormous changes with the recent introduction of solar power and even more recent internet connectivity via satellites. But subsistence living remains the norm.  Fishing and farming are the major occupations.  Local governance is practiced by the hereditary Chiefs of the villages.   

The traditional ceremony of “sevusevu” is deeply imbedded in Fijian history and culture.  Historically, the sevusevu was limited to participation by priests, chiefs and warriors.  It was used to mark important life-cycle social events, to symbolize unity and respect, to settle disagreements between Chiefs or to make peace among warriors.  The modern version of sevusevu is more broadly enjoyed, and it’s the most important Fijian ritual for visitors like us to understand and observe. 

Sevusevu is the traditional welcome ceremony.  It involves visitors presenting a gift of yaqona (pronounced yang-GO-nah) or kava root, to the village Chief – as both a sign of respect and a request for permission to join the community.  As we approach an island and enter an anchorage, our first obligation is to go ashore to the nearest village with our kava root in hand, find the local “headman” or other village elder, and request to be taken to the village Chief in order that we may bring him our gift and request his permission to enter.  In actual fact, our very first obligation was to buy as many kava bundles at the market in Savusavu before we left as there were villages we thought we might want to visit.  There is no kava to be found in the Lau islands, none but what we bring from the mainland.

It’s a serious business, and it’s expected to be performed with respect and modesty.  Appropriate dress is required – a Sulu to be worn by men and women alike, no bare shoulders for women, no hats, no sunglasses, no backpacks.  We’re invited to enter the Chief’s home, and we sit on the pandanus mat on the floor across from the Chief – men cross-legged, women with knees and ankles together off to one side, knees all around covered by Sulus.  

The headman does “cobo” (cupped clapping) three times and then recites a monologue in Fijian.  I think he’s formally receiving our sevusevu and telling the Chief a bit about us, that we’re sailors from Canada and we come in peace to pay our respects – but I can’t say for certain, the only word I make out is “Canada”. And then he presents our kava bundles to the Chief.  The Chief then recites a monologue in Fijian before he changes to English to tell us that we are now part of the village and welcome to enjoy the surrounding lands and stay in the surrounding waters for as long as we wish. 

The vast majority of land in Fiji, around 87%, is native or iTaukei land, and it’s held communally by various customary units, such as clans, tribes or other groupings.  At the four sevusevu ceremonies we attended, we were welcomed to the “village lands”, including the surrounding waters – although it was never clear to me where one village territory ended or the next began.  It’s a super-formal process, but also pretty blurry around the edges – at least to the uninitiated, like me.

Typically, as we were told, the acceptance of the gift of kava is followed by the making and sharing of the kava drink – a drink made of the pounded root of the yaqona, a member of the pepper family.  Drinking Kava, also known as Grog, has a mild narcotic or sedative effect, often experienced as a relaxed feeling and a mild tingling on the tongue and lips.  Although we did sevusevu in four separate villages, each time they skipped over the making and drinking part of the ceremony and sent us on our way.  Totally fine with me, the muddy drink was not calling my name.

But this is the thing about sevusevu.  And I mean utterly no offence or disrespect to the cultural or historical importance of the ceremony for the Fijian people and the Lau villages.  But for us cruisers, this is the thing.  The welcome byproduct of sevusevu is that it’s a legitimate and authentic introduction to the local villagers.  All and sundry open their big wide hospitable hearts and arms to us – for we have the blessing of the Chief! 

Without the sevusevu, we would never have enjoyed so many consequential encounters. 

The journey to Lomaloma market with Jacob, the headman in Susui (Balavu). 

Our long conversations with Jacob about the recent cyclone and the future well-being of his community.  The invitation to his home for a lunch of barracuda ceviche with his wife Bale (pronounced, ballet) and their son.  They fed us, but they didn’t eat.

The assignment of Seta as our “host family” in the village of Monothaki (Fulaga).  Meeting the community of wood carvers on Fulaga. 

Enjoying kava with Seta and the men of the Monothaki village. Even today, drinking Grog is mostly a men-only event, although Bale assured us that the women on Susui partake on Fridays – she called it “island night”.  

Invitation to a delicious dinner of fried fish, plantain and coconut bread – none of which I’d ever tasted before! – all set out on the pandanus mat under the thatched shelter outside Seta’s home. 

Engaging with Jese on Vanua Matuku – Jese whom we first met in simple search of transport to Yaroi village for sevusevu – but that was just the beginning of all he shared.

Occupation: first, a speardiver, to feed his family. Club-footed, he uses just one flipper. Without a boat, he swims from the village to the reef and back, with his catch in tow, in shark-infested waters – at night! He had a boat – a gift of an inflatable dinghy from another yachtie (as he calls us). But the rigid bottom had come away from the inflatable sides, and the tube of glue he needed to put humpty back together cost F$120 and weeks/months of waiting for the supply ship to bring it in. Eventually the dinghy was scrapped, and he applied to the Fijian government for support for a new longboat – he would have to prove he could raise $12,000 to buy it and the gov would pay the rest. He waits for his turn in the queue – it’s been 3 years so far.

In the meantime, he’s also a farmer. With the help of his wife and 13-year old daughter – who’d rather be spear fishing – they grow cabbages and other veggies for the yachties. Without a boat, they’ve been loading the veggies into a tub, and he swims it all out to the yachts. We yachties are over the moon for the chance to get our hands on any fresh food.

That’s when the seeds of a perfect plan were planted. Classic triple wordscore. For the “pool toy”, the maligned interim dinghy that didn’t last more than a couple of weeks for us – it could have a renaissance – repurposed as a working boat on the island of Matuku. For us, we could offload 70 pounds of unwanted weight and regain storage space in our front locker. And for Jese, a little boat – not the boat of his dreams, but a boat that could handle his 5HP motor and could help his dreams come true. Even if only to deliver his daughter’s cabbages, that’s a start and good enough for me.

On the last leg of our Fiji-with-friends tour, we sailed – perfect champagne sailing once again – from Matuku to Suva. Coming into Suva is something altogether different than anywhere we’d been in Fiji. It’s the capitol city, and the Suva harbour is very much a commercial / industrial port. The water is muddy brown, but smells worse than that, and lots of garbage floats about, including some bigger things that we don’t want to mess with our propellers. We share the anchorage with all manner of vessels – huge freighters, container ships, inter-island ferries, fishing boats, and just a handful of other sailors.

As we entered Suva harbour in the pouring rain, visibility was terrible. Our Catana 431 has many fine features, but the completely exposed helm stations with no weather protection whatsoever are a notable exception. Still, through rain soaked glasses, you can’t help but notice the rotting wrecks that greet you as you enter the harbour. These being only the first two of many rusting hulks. A harsh warning, a bit unsettling, but they do mark spots that we need to avoid in any event. Some hazards are visible only at low tide, and it makes you wonder what all else is down there. Definitely not the vision you had of the Fiji of your dreams.

Bill planned to get in there with snorkel and mask, as soon as we arrived, to inspect whatever damage we may have done on the reef in Matuku. But one quick look at the harbour waters scuppered that plan. While in Suva, we lived in fear of falling in the harbour.

We’d planned to avoid Suva altogether. But our guests were flying out of Nadi International in a couple of days, and we’d dallied a little in the islands, leaving us without time enough to deliver them back to the west side of Viti Levu. Best option was to bring them to Suva where there are many options to travel to Nadi by bus or by plane.

But as so often happens, the thing you stumbled on just because, turns into something else altogether. For us, Suva was the place “to be avoided if you possibly can”, but it turned into – first, a necessity – and then, a great place for provisioning, some fine restaurants, a good local handicraft market, a terrific museum of Fijian history and artifacts, and a chance to catch-up with fellow cruisers. I found myself unexpectedly saying “huh, I really like it here, it’s a nice city”.

In a nutshell, I could just as easily have sent a puny post. I could simply say:

From Savu to Suva – with Sevu in between.

So many colours – every one of them blue.