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We motored in our dinghy up the narrow Bitiri river leading to the various villages, passing a boy who sat on the riverside watching the bird life and jumping fish. He waved as we motored by in our inflatable dinghy, looking curiously at our craft. Further on, an old farmer plowed his sugarcane with two giant buffalo. I later met him when returning from the farmers' market in Nandi, a full day's journey by bus and foot. He happily offered me a ride.

I looked at my penciled map, hurriedly scrawled while an islander had given directions. "Turn left here," I coached Peter. Hidden channels appeared out of the thick mangrove forest. Without our map, we'd surely have been lost.

We entered a very narrow channel through the massive roots, their dark canopy giving us refuge from the searing heat, like walking into an air-conditioned room from a Floridian sidewalk at noon in summer. A cacophony of bird life resounded through the forest, crabs held court on the six-inch wide roots, pernicious colossal spiders stretched overhead across the water, forcing us to creep underneath. We kept our arms in close to avoid contact with the barnacle-infested mangroves.

A battered red boat resting on a tiny beach grabbed our attention at the end of a very narrow channel. Only a footpath led away from the riverside -- no other articles gave evidence of village life nearby. We slowly glided in to avoid going aground on the low tide.

Alighting from the dinghy, I sank mid-calf in mud. We retrieved my flip flop and marched on down the village dirt trail, leaving the dinghy resting on the tiny beach with an anchor.

We had dressed conservatively out of respect, for these religious people don't approve of bare shoulders or knees due to their religion. It was hot in the glaring sun, but a cool breeze blew to assuage our discomfort.

A woman in a red sarong was hanging out her wash as we walked up and greeted her in Fijian, "Mblula!" (Hello!)

She replied, "Mbula," and asked us to follow her to the house of their chief after we told her we were bearing supplies and gifts. Children peered from behind doors and trees, curious of their new visitors. We removed our hats and sunglasses, as per the custom for greeting a chief.

He appeared from his house with a broad smile spreading across his face and shook our hands, ebulliently, saying, "Mbula!" A large village mat for ceremonies was spread for us. Made from coconut fiber, these large mats are hand-woven by the island woman with intricate designs to represent their rich tribal history.

Our gifts of T-shirts, toothbrushes and books were placed in the center along with the kava powder I had brought in the farmers' market back in Nandi, a big city nearby. Kava is a tranquilizing nonalcoholic drink, made from the dried root of the pepper plant, which numbs the tongue and lips. It's a way of uniting the village tribe at the end of the day when work has been completed.

A toothless old man with weathered skin placed a large hand carved tanoa (wooden bowl), nearly a meter wide, in front of the mixer, who was sitting to the left of the chief. I was to his right. It was important where everyone sat, according to their status in the tribe. Sometimes the officiates were adorned in tapa, a handmade cloth made from the bark of mulberry trees and painted with dye made from roots. Ironically, the mixer was wearing a vibrant orange T-shirt emblazoned with Adidas!

The chief gave a short speech acknowledging us and we answered in greeting, thus launching the yanggona (kava) ceremony. A sense of utmost gravity drifted through the air, it being the most ceremonial sacramental ritual and ancient tradition. Everyone was silent for now, but this was to change later.

Around us, children and women watched. Short, stubby sugarcane stalks left over from the harvest clattered in the zephyr, as if bearing an ancestral song to accompany our yanggona.

A woman appeared with a pitcher of water and an intricate process began between the mixer and the master of ceremonies, who was seated clockwise, to determine the strength of the kava by much pouring in and out of the mbilo (half coconut shell). The exchange of important ceremonial phrases lasted a long period.

When all was finally ready, the mixer squeezed the remaining juice from the pulp and announced rather loudly to the chief, "Sa lose oti saka na yanggona, vaka turanga." (The kava is ready, my chief.) The mixer then ran both hands around the rim of the tanoa and clapped three times. "Talo," (serve) said the master of ceremonies.

A cupbearer presented the first cup to Peter, being the guest of honor. He clapped once, drained it and shouted, "Matha!" (Empty!) Everyone clapped three times and repeated, "Matha!" By this point, the hand clapping was getting rather confusing to follow. Each time it represents a reverent, time-honored tradition.

The second and third cups went to an official and the chief, with three claps following. I was next and was very nervous, afraid I couldn't drain it, ruining the ceremony. My heart raced and sweat beaded on my forehead in the shade. When the mbilo was handed to me, I closed my eyes, smiled, and held my breath (visions sprang into my head of when, as a child, my mother had coached castor oil down my throat before dinner to guard me from invisible invading germs).

As the river water ran down my throat, I forced back an involuntary gag. A violent revolt began in my gut. Before it had a chance to overwhelm me, I loudly shouted, "Matha!" and threw up my arms into the air. Everyone knew I'd just barely achieved -- gone native -- and burst into full laughter. No one could maintain an order of silence any longer and we proceeded to carry on like a bunch of wild monkeys gone bananas in a tree. Three times the mbilo was passed around until the tanoa was emptied!

We shared tales and chatted about village life. The preacher, a wiry man with one tooth, long stringy hair and a gray wispy beard, exchanged spiritual discussions with us. His advice was well-respected in the village.

Many islanders joined us for the one-mile trek to the riverfront to retrieve our dinghy. Heartfelt goodbyes were given as we departed.

We snaked down the winding river until we reached Scud in her quiet reverie. As we were climbing aboard the sugarscoops tying up our dinghy, I heard the VHF radio announce, "Scud, Scud; Ocelot, Ocelot." We switched channels and my friend, Sue, on Ocelot asked, "Do you want to watch the firewalking ceremony and enjoy the feast prepared in the lovo (dirt pit oven) tomorrow?"

I accepted, excited, wondering, would I be asked to drink kava?

Tina Dreffin has been living aboard boats ever since her sailor-husband, Peter, kidnapped her when she was hitting six lane highways selling commercial real estate in Houston. Today, she is cruising in their fourth boat together, having collected over 80,000 cruising nautical miles under her sea legs. They reared their two sons in George Town, Bahamas, and are completing a circumnavigation, currently in Australia, headed up to the Great Barrier Reef.

Look for more articles from Tina in future editions of the Bluewater Newsletter!

If you are planning to cruise Fiji, you may want to check out the following books:

A Yachtsman's Fiji, by Michael Calder

Fiji Cruising Notes, by Phil Creegan

South Pacific Anchorages, by Warwick Clay