South Seas Revival

Posted on 22. Mar, 2008 by Kerry Banks in Destinations

Buffeted by the wind and bucking in our seats, we hang on tight as the speedboat pounds across the glittering, blue water. Our Fijian pilot, Joseph, decked out in a crimson baseball cap and black wraparound sunglasses, only slightly darker than his skin, turns and smiles and gestures toward the horizon. “Malolo,” he says. The dreamy contours of the green island, fringed with palm trees and white sand, lies dead ahead, smouldering in the tropical heat. It is Sunday morning and we are going to church.

It has been awhile since I last attended a house of worship, but this visit is not inspired by guilt or a sudden spiritual urge, but rather by curiosity. I’d heard that religious services in Fiji were often remarkable experiences. The setting was certainly different. Malolo is the largest of the Mamanuca Group, a chain of volcanic islands that rise lke a strand of pearls from the sea west of the main Fijian island of Viti Levu, and only a short trip from our resort on nearby Castaway Island. Our destination was Solevu, one of two villages on Malolo.

As a gesture of respect, I’ve donned a dress shirt and pressed trousers, while my wife is wearing a blouse and a sarong. Our choice of apparel proves impractical, however, when our pilot, unable to steer his massive outboard into the shallows, forces us to hop over the side into the thigh-deep water and wade ashore. Several smiling villagers call out “Bula!” as we make our way to land. The greeting, which literally means life, is one of the best words in any language, full of cheer and sunshine. As Fijians like to say, the more you say “Bula” the longer you live. Soaked in salt water and holding aloft our sandals and cameras, we respond in kind.

Considering the serenity of the scene, it is difficult to imagine that here in 1840, an American expeditionary force led by Commodore Charles Wilkes, massacred 87 Fijians and laid waste to Solevu after two of his crew members were killed while trying to bargain for food. Despite the placid popular image of the South Seas, much of Fiji’s history was marked by bloodshed. Until the early 1800s, when the discovery of sandalwood brought waves of traders and missionaries to its shores, it was avoided by sailors, who knew it as a dangerous place, inhabited by fierce and unpredictable cannibals. Cannibalism was practised throughout the South Seas, but in Fiji the taste for “long pig” was highly developed, where it was prized both for its flavour and its aphrodisiac qualities. Fiji’s most notorious cannibal king, Ratu Udreudre, is alleged to have consumed 872 corpses.

Today, the cannibals have all become Christians. Fiji is home to 20 different denominations, including Methodists, Anglicans, Catholics, Seventh-Day Adventists, Jehovah’s Witnesses and the Assemblies of God, a Pentecostal sect, whose most famous member is Jimmy Swaggart, the popular televangelist, whose career imploded after his dalliances with prostitutes became public. The residents of Solevu belong to this latter group, whose practises include talking in tongues and faith healing.

After making introductions and snapping photos of the children in their Sunday finery, we enter the church: a wooden bungalow with a thatched roof, its shuttered windows open to catch the breeze. The parishioners sit cross-legged on the straw-matted floor, lazily waving hand fans, while a dog sleeps with his head propped on the top step of the doorway. The altar area is simply adorned with flowers and white paper crosses affixed to purple cloth, and a bank of amplifiers and musical instruments.

As we wait in the stifling heat, a band files in and takes the stage. It’s composed of a barefoot, teenaged drummer, a balding, blind organist, a grey-haired guitarist in a snappy suit jacket, and four tall, regal-looking female vocalists. They promptly launch into an electrified cross of gospel and South Seas soul, delivered with a professional snap. After several rousing numbers that get the congregation swaying and clapping, the pastor makes his appearance. His frizzy hair is modelled in the style of a 1950s rocker with long sideburns, and he wears a grey jacket, a tie, a grey sulu (a skirt extending to mid-calf) and sandals. Holding the microphone in his right hand and the cord stylishly curled around his left, he paces back and forth, eyes closed, murmuring scripture in Fijian and shouting “Praise the Lord!” or “Halluejah!,” phrases that are repeated by the assembly. He continues his trance-like preaching for 20 minutes, and then, as the music swells to a crescendo, he takes a seat, leaving the stage to the singers.

The service, part revival meeting and part nightclub floorshow, lasts 90 mesmerizing minutes. Although we are unable to understand the sermon’s message, our spirits feel thoroughly uplifted. After shaking hands and exchanging goodbyes with the villagers, we stroll out into the dazzling daylight and down the beach to rendezvous with our waiting speedboat. As the big motors thrum to life and we chug away, I can still hear the heavenly gospel rhythms echoing in my ears.