Ovalau

The Cession Monument where Fiji was given to England. See the sloop in the background? Photo by David Lansing.

Since there’s not much to do in Levuka, I spend a fair amount of time just walking about. This morning, after my usual stroll down Beach Street, I continued south of town past the wharf and tuna plant to the Cession Monument, where the Deed of Cession, making Fiji a British colony, was signed by Chief Cakobau in 1874. This wasn’t a pround moment in Fijian history.

Ratu (the name for chief in Fijian) Seru Epenisa Cakobau was born in 1815 and was known as one of the great Fijian warlords. Like his father before him (the name “Cakobau” means “destroyer of Bau”), the Ratu killed this chief and that chief until, around 1865, he had pretty much become the defacto King of Fiji. In 1871, he finally succeeded in creating a united Fijian kingdom and established Levuka as the capital.

The sad eyes of Chief Cakabou, once the King of Fiji.

But things quickly went south. The U.S. decided that since Ratu Cakobau was the king of Fiji, he was financially responsible for an arson attack against the home of the American consul, John Brown William, on the island of Nukulau and demanded $44,000 in compensation. And just where did the Americans think a Fijian Ratu was going to come up with $44,000 in the 1870s?

Of course, this was just a ruse and a way for the U.S. to assert more power in Fiji. Fearing an American invasion and annexation (just think—Fiji could have become the 50^th state instead of Hawaii), Cakobau decided the best thing he could do was cede the islands to the United Kingdom. Which is how Fiji became a British colony for almost 100 years.

Three stones in a grassy little park near the water’s edge mark the signing ceremony that took place on October 10, 1874, as well as Fiji’s independence exactly 96 years later and the 1974 centennial celebration of the Deed of Cession.

You’ll notice in the photo of these stones that in the background is the British sloop I’ve talked about—the one Meli swears is haunted. Strangely enough, I’ve seen the boat anchored at a couple of different spots along the coast while I’ve been here. But I’ve still never seen anyone on board. And no one in town has any idea who actually owns the sloop. Perhaps it’s just another sad reminder of British colonialism on the islands. Like the stones in the park.

Time to move on…

Bundles of taro for sale at Levuka's informal market. Photo by David Lansing.

A few years ago the Levuka town council decided to build the sort of covered market area you’d find in the more sophisticated Fijian towns like Suva. It’s a nice area with clean, covered stalls just along the road outside the Royal Hotel. The only problem is that the old women who comprise the market didn’t like it. “Too far from town,” they complained, though the distance between the covered market and the old sea wall where they liked to throw down their blankets and plastic tarps was maybe a two minute walk.

I think what they really meant was that at the covered market, they couldn’t keep an eye on what was happening along Beach Street—even if there really wasn’t anything happening. It also made it more difficult to say hello to friends walking around town to pick up a bottle of palm oil at Katudrau Trading Market or candles at Young Yet & Sons General Store.

It’s a congenial place, Levuka. Everyone pretty much knows everyone else. So if you are one of the old ladies who lives out in the country and you grow just enough taro to bring in a few bundles for sale on market day, you don’t want to be stuck inside a small stall in a covered market on the edge of town. You want to sit along the sea wall where the air is fresh from the ocean breeze and you want to be able to shout out “Bula!” to an old friend walking out of Emily’s with a fresh loaf of bread.

So that’s what you do. You sit squat-legged on the ground, a cloth spread in front of you, selling a few yams or maybe some breadfruit or aubergines. And though it isn’t a very sophisticated market—and certainly nothing like that in Suva or Nadi—it’s good enough for Levuka. In fact, it’s just fine.

Photo by David Lansing.

Finally got around to having a drink last night at the Ovalau Club. I don’t know why it took me so long to visit. As the century-old bastion of British colonialism (there’s still a sign on the front that says “Members Only” but nobody pays any attention to it), you’d think I would have popped over for a G&T long ago. Particularly since it’s only a block away from the Royal Hotel.

With its tongue-and-groove walls and sepia portraits of English naval officers, it certainly has an authentic E.M. Forester vibe to it. But, frankly, I found the place a bit depressing. Maybe it was the faded sailing pennants on the walls or the worn floor planks that smelled of old beer. Oh, wait! I know what it was. It was the old “Saturday Night Fever” Bee Gee songs—Staying Alive, Jive Talking, Night Fever—playing on the tinny sound system. For some reason, hearing You Should be Dancing always brings me down.

There were maybe half a dozen people at the bar drinking rum and coke or Fiji Bitters. One old bloke, who introduced himself to me as Captain Crabby (I swear) must have been a pirate at one time because he ended every sentence with “argh.” Captain Crabby’s face was as tan and wrinkled as an old bull hide. His thin hair was slicked back and he wore a thick gold chain. He was wearing some foul cologne like Old Spice. Just to make conversation, I asked him if he knew anything about the old British sloop in the bay that Meli had said was haunted.

“I’ve seen it. Argh,” he said.

“Any idea who owns it?”

Argh. Some Limey. Argh.”

That was as much as I could get from Captain Crabby.

After a bit, three Japanese tourists came in. They drank shots of white rum and started singing along to the music while bouncing their heads back and forth like those porcelain dogs you put on your car dashboard.

“Ev’rybuddie shakin’ and we are stayin’ a-li-e, stayin’ a-li-e.”

There was only so much I could take of that, particularly when they started grabbing empty beer bottles as if they were microphones and pretending they were in a karaoke bar.

“Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin’ a-li-e, stayin’ a-li-e.”

I paid my bill and walked back to the Royal Hotel where I ordered a gin and tonic, drinking it in the empty bar by myself. The silence was wonderful.

Church of the Sacred Heart in Levuka. Photo by David Lansing.

Just down the street from the Royal Hotel is one of the most beautiful landmarks in all of Fiji, the Church of the Sacred Heart. I love to walk by it in the morning when the rays of the sun coming up over the Koro Sea catch the bright blue tin roof, echoing back the color of the sky and the sea. The church was built by French Marist priests who arrived in Ovalau in 1858 when this was really a rough and tumble town. Here’s how a paper from this time described the atmosphere:

“We have had rows enough during the last week to satisfy everyone for two fortnights, and if broken heads, black eyes and narrow escapes from a Japanese disemboweling with the broadsword, or a few gentle prickings with a fourteen-inch ham slicer are not sufficient to make us all go about with revolvers in our belts, as many of the more cautious do, yet they make us all wish either for a magistrate that would be a terror to evildoers, or for a beacon to sweep the beach of the drink maddened ruffians.”

If you look at the photo of Sacred Heart, you’ll see how the church has this split personality. There’s the modest tin-roofed church, looking very much like a house of worship you’d find anywhere in the South Pacific, and then there’s this rather Gothic-looking stone tower that looks like it was lifted whole from some cathedral in Europe.

The clock tower was actually built 40 years after the church was raised and there are a couple of interesting things about it. First, there’s a green neon light on the stone tower that lines up with another green light farther up the hill and it’s these two lights that help guide sailors into port.

Secondly, the French clock at the top of the tower, which is used by everyone in town to tell time, strikes twice at the top of the hour with a one-minute pause in between (just in case you missed it the first time). And instead of a chime or a gong, the clock produces a sort of whimsical “thud.” Like a wooden mallet striking a hallow log. Still, I anxiously wait for it each morning around nine. Hearing the odd noise makes me feel that the day has officially begun.

Photo by David Lansing.

I think I mentioned that just outside of town is a fish factory. It’s called PAFCO (Pacific Fishing Company) and is a joint venture between the Japanese and the Fijian government. The thing is, if the fish factory wasn’t here, I doubt very much whether Levuka would be either because there’s really no other commerce. Certainly no tourism.

Back in the day when Levuka was booming (which would be in the 1870s and 1880s), Levuka was sort of a transshipment point for the copra trade. But the last of that business was gone by the late 1950s. And the town sort of frittered away. Until the Japanese fish cannery was established.

It’s an ugly, stinky place, as canneries tend to be, but nobody here is complaining. Everyone knows the deal: no cannery, no Levuka. So they live with it.

So what happens is that long-range fishing boats, from all over the South Seas, bring in huge loads of mostly 40- to 50-lb. albacore which are then cleaned and cooked under high-pressure steam before being chunked and canned. Then it’s put back on boats and shipped off to Europe or Canada.

The PAFCO plant also has high-tech freezing facilities where they process other types of fish, from swordfish to walu, as well as tuna. In fact, overall, the factory processes over 16,000 tons of fish a year. That’s a lot of fish.

I mention this because it is almost impossible to get fresh fish anywhere in Levuka. I’m not even sure most residents here even know what fresh fish is. There’s a little fish market on Beach Street, called J. Loa’s, but if you go inside, as I did Saturday morning, what you’ll find are a couple of floor freezers stocked with mostly frozen walu.

“Do you have any fresh fish this morning?”

“Fresh?”

“Yes, fresh.”

“You mean like not frozen?”

“Exactly.”

“No, sir. Just the frozen.”

Same thing at Whale’s Tale. The décor, such as it is, may be nautical in nature—a wooden dolphin, Japanese glass floats, a rusty fish scale—but when you order the walu steak, sautéed in garlic lemon butter, the cook has to go to the freezer and pull out a frozen piece of fish and stick it in the microwave.

It’s the oddest thing: a fishing village that processes 32 million pounds of fish a year—32 million!—but doesn’t have any fresh fish. Go figure.