Suva, Fiji
Spice of Life
Up at dawn and ready to step off in Nuku’alofa, I watched as the land passed by my window — and then right out of sight. I hoped it was one of the many uninhabited islands in the area, and that I’d see the harbor on the horizon soon. But, the captain’s announcement came that we had been refused entry to the Kingdom of Tonga. While we’ll never get a full explanation, the worldwide concern regarding coronavirus was likely too risky for this island with minimal infrastructure (even though we’ve been essentially isolated on our own “island” aboard the ship, with basically zero chance of exposure).
So, we set off for Suva, Fiji, with every body part crossed that we’d be admitted when we arrived. The morning our ship was cleared, a cheer erupted throughout decks. And rather than just one quick day in port, which is our typical itinerary, we’d have two full days and a night to explore — a unique opportunity to sink in more and rush less.
While Suva was the biggest and most modern city I encountered in Polynesia, the locals made it feel like a small town. Everyone greeted me — “Bula!” — with a smile and a wave. Many jumped into my photos in the market, showing off produce or throwing peace signs. Somehow, I even ended up in selfies with total strangers?! The city itself was so genuine, that I was almost skeptical that my tour to a spice farm and “cultural experience” outside of Suva would add authenticity to my visit. Silly me…
At Wainadoi Spice Gardens, umbrellas were thoughtfully held above our heads as we scurried out of the rain and under the large shelter to begin the visit with introductions and a traditional kava ceremony. [I was one of two people to try the mouth-numbing ritual drink — unsure whether others were nervous about the mysterious concoction itself, or just completely put off of communal beverages thanks to omnipresent coronavirus fears.]
George, who runs the farm with his wife Victoria, began to relate the story of the place, and how it was founded by Ronald Gatty, a Tasmanian raised in Fiji, whose father was an aviator and the first man to fly around the world. Gatty was a black sheep and left for America with nothing to his name, yet somehow ended up studying botany, economics, and anthropology at Cornell, and then came back to the South Pacific as a plant explorer in herbal medicine. It’s the kind of life you can’t make up. When he retired in Fiji in the 1980s, he wanted to help improve the local economy and the lives of farmers, keeping them productive within their villages rather than displacing them. So, he bought land in Wainadoi and started experimenting with crops. Spices — cinnamon, nutmeg, pepper, vanilla, etc. — turned out to be the ticket.
Today, George and Victoria, who worked at the gardens with Gatty until his death just a few years ago, have taken over operations and continue to honor him by working to fulfill his dream of helping 2,000 local farmers.
As we toured around the land, they handed us all kinds of things to smell and taste:
- bark from a cinnamon tree, sweeter and more cinnamon-y than candy
- ginger so spicy just touch with my tongue was enough
- lemongrass that made me hungry for a curry
- fresh sugarcane that cleans your teeth rather than rots them
- a coconut larger and heavier than my head that a tiny boy dropped down from a 30-foot tree; a teenager took a machete to and popped in a straw so I could sip the water; and a young man made a makeshift spoon out of the top and then carved out the softest coconut meat I’ve ever eaten once I had finally finished drinking the water (he checked for completion and teased me for the little bit I’d left)
After the tour, we were treated to a massive home-cooked lunch with products from the gardens — food that you can’t find in a restaurant. [Fijians mostly enjoy Chinese and Indian cuisine when they go out.] One of the men stood by us as we ate, waving a bandana to shoo flies away from our plates. A woman saw me drop the orchid I was wearing behind my ear, and insisted I take hers. The troop of little boys in grass skirts, clearly looking up to and intent on learning traditions from the bigger ones, performed meke storytelling dances and bravely followed the men barefoot across hot stones that had been firing since 6 o’clock that morning.
I asked Victoria if the story of Gatty and the farm was written anywhere, like in a brochure; she laughed sweetly and said they had run out and needed to re-print, but that it was on their website. When I checked the website with my glacial internet connection, I got the GoDaddy ‘URL available’ landing page. Mentioning this to George, he chuckled and said he guessed they hadn’t existed for a while. Then, without hesitating, he said that I should take his copy of the Fijian-English Dictionary written by Gatty. Figuring this would have been something for sale to help support the farm, I offered to pay, but got nowhere with that. George put the book in my hands and told me to take it home with me, so I could remember and pass it along to others.
On our way out, everyone who worked, cooked, and performed at the gardens formed a receiving line to shake our hands and say goodbye one by one. At the end of the line, I got a hug and double cheek kisses from Victoria. Everyone waved — and waved and waved some more, no less enthusiastically, as the bus did a three-point turn to exit — and I was already missing people whom I’d just met a couple hours before.
On an island where tales of cannibalism as a belief system still capture imaginations, I encountered the gentlest, most generous people imaginable. I’ll never forget them, their story, or the food and feeling they gave me.
