Lolóma, or two years in cannibal-land: A story of old Fiji

by Henry Britton

The sun sinks towards the west, and soon the palpitating life of the tropics is in full flow again. The chorus of innumerable insects is deafening. Every tree, shrub, and blade of grass seems to live and to breathe at every pore. The great heart of Nature with its teeming life throbs around.

Lying lazily in the dark shadow of a bread-fruit tree, I watched through the veil of leaves the strange procession of cloud-forms, following their capricious imagery and their monstrous and curiously changing shapes. Lolóma, playing in the leafy folds of a shaddock tree which scented the neighborhood, was fancifully decorating herself with its fragrant flowers, which resemble the orange blossom. When I told her that was the bridal flower of English people, nothing would satisfy her but a full description of the wedding ceremonies of the kai papalangis. Disporting herself in the glories of a new parti-coloured liku, which shone like shot silk in the sun, she tripped lightly on the sward, courting my admiration of some fresh artistic arrangement of flowers. So the hours fled away with childish prattle, the dreamy melody of merry words, and the low soft laughter of perfect happiness.

When the sun had lost his power, the more vivid colours in the landscape died out, and were succeeded by rich purple tints, and the long woodland reaches assumed a tint of pale emerald beneath the indigo blue of the sky. Then the populace came out to amuse themselves with the sport of reed-throwing on the level turf, swimming in the surf on the coral beach, engaging in loud-voiced fishing parties, or searching the shell-strewn sand for decorative ornaments. There were bleaching on the sand, volutes, harps, marginelles, cones, and every variety of exquisitely colored shells, which, being daily washed by the sea, retained their beauty for a long time. The orange cowrie is here the costliest gift of the sea. This beautiful shell, once quite plentiful, is now extremely rare. Wading out to the reef, which separates the lagoon waters from the dark purple of the outer ocean, we enter on the wonderfully beautiful submarine rainbow produced by the sun gleaming on the sunken coral. The colors of the solar prism are marvellously blended. The parrot fishes which glide about—the tiny fishes of pale blue and bright green, with bands of black, white, and gold, and sky-blue collars, which dart in and out of the subaqueous growths—give an indescribable charm to the picture. It was Lolóma’s delight to watch her own supple reflection gleaming in these tranquil depths. She was bright as the sunshine, and wild as the sea-spray with which she sported. As she rose from the waves, her limbs glistening, after a dive in the surf, she was a veritable sea-nymph.

As the sun went down, the little town of Ramáka was enveloped in an ethereal golden mist, that rose from the water and the shore. The buildings floated on a lake of rose-hued radiance;—the mountaintops in the background, bathed in a brief flush of crimson, seemed to flicker with flame. When the great Eye of Day, as the Fijians poetically name the sun, was closed behind the watery horizon, the rosy cones of the hills faded to a duller hue. But soon the stars rushed out, for there is no twilight in the tropics; the moon illuminated the sea with long lines of rippling light; the reef, the ocean, the coral strand and the hills above, shone like a sparkling garland of jewels, and the long cool night was welcomed after the blazing heat of the day. Then the inhabitants gave themselves up to evening amusements, prominent among which were the fishing parties.

There were various methods adopted for catching fish. Fishhooks of wood, shell, or bone, were used; and sometimes the craftsmen relied on the glare of the torch made of bunches of dried reeds, when the finny spoils were to be secured by spearing. Occasionally fish were temporarily stupefied, and made easy of capture with the hand, by throwing into the water the pointed fruit of the vutu rakaraka, and the stem and leaves of the duvu ganga, which were also on some occasions drawn through the water by a long vine or creeper. The favourite method, however, was the construction of a fence of bark, leaves, and sticks, which enclosed the fish in the middle of the circle. The space in the middle was gradually contracted by hauling on both ends of the fence. Soon the space became so small that the fish were forced to jump over the barrier on every side. Then the fun commenced. Some caught the scaly creatures in their hands, others speared them, and not a few scooped them up in hand-nets. The babel of sounds with the shouting, prancing, splashing, and laughter which all this gave rise to, as the merry people gathered in the silvern harvest of the sea, it would be impossible to describe. Not infrequently a single canoe was brought into requisition in the sport. The frail skiff often got swamped in deep water. Nothing damaged, the occupants would jump out, and pressing down one end until the greater part of the water had run out, they let go suddenly; then swimming along by the side, they baled out the remainder and jumped in again.

But the most curious fishing incident is that of the arrival of the balolo—the Fijian whitebait season. The balolo is a strange annelidan, which comes into these waters regularly each November, just after the first quarter of the moon. Its periodical appearance is always predicted with unerring certainty. The worm-like creature, with its cylindrical jointed body, coloured green, red, brown, or white, is found floating on the surface in millions in the early morning. The water becomes thick with wriggling balolos, and they are scooped up by the hand. The Fijians carry their vermicelli away in leaves, and bake them in ovens, afterwards going in for a “diet of worms.”

I often joined in the fishing excursions. One evening, some hours after the sun had sunk like a globe of fire beyond the watery horizon, and the moon had risen high in the Heavens,—lured by the beauty of the silver-shining sea, I had remained out on the reef, unmindful that the prattling fishing parties had trooped home. Enchained by the magic beauty of the spectacle, and lulled by the monotonous booming of the heaving ocean, as it rolled against the great natural breakwater, I hardly noticed that the tide was rapidly coming in, and that the water on the highest point of the reef was already above my ancles. Turning shorewards, my right foot sunk into a depression in the coral formation, and I immediately felt that I was in the grip of a vice. My foot had entered the expanded jaws of an enormous clam-shell, which instantly shut upon it. These bi-valves, in shape like an oyster, have a terrible power of holding whatever comes within their grip, though I was not aware of it at the time. A good wrench failing to give me liberty, I stooped and sought to disengage my foot with my hand. I might as well have tried to tear a rock in two. The shell was firmly fixed in the coral, which seemed to have grown round it, and no mortal fingers could dislodge it from its position.

Now for the first time the desperate peril of my situation dawned upon me. I was paralysed for a few moments with the thought that entered my mind like a flash, that I had no chance of escape from death—a slow and lingering death—death in its most agonising form—dying by inches while in the full flow of health. My recent companions were all out of hail, the town was two miles distant, and I should remain bound to this rock till the flowing tide drowned me. The water rose with each succeeding wave, and chilled me with the terror of the prospect. I shouted aloud for help, though knowing none could come. My puny voice was lost in the hollow murmuring of the sea, as it rambled among the branching coral and cavernous ledges. Straggling members of the fishing parties were still visible a thousand yards from me, but they were rapidly widening the distance. Faint echoes of their jocund songs borne on the light wind, added another pang to the thought that I should never rejoin them. They would soon regain the town. I should probably not be missed for several hours, and then no one would know where to search for me. Even now, with the water up to my waist, and the sea breaking on the reef, I was not an object that could be discerned more than a few paces off.

A long roller passed over my head. When it receded, I remained shoulder-deep in the water. I shouted again, aimlessly. I tugged with desperation at the trap which held me, and sickened at the sense of the utter hopelessness of my position. I wondered how long I should live after it became a question of holding my breath while the waters passed over me. The feeling of fearful loneliness that crept over me was intensified by the wild uproar of the waves as they dashed upon the barrier, sounding in the broken spaces with a terrible bellowing and hissing, which seemed to my excited fancy demoniacally malignant, as though evil spirits were rejoicing in the prey so soon to be delivered up to them, and were now sporting around it with malicious glee. The moon threw down her soft light, striking with silvery sheen the familiar peaks and headlands, and lacing the sea with paths of glittering quicksilver. The stars were twinkling above like so many fireflies. The beauty of the night only added to my misery.

The level water reached to my chin. I strained my neck to keep it from gurgling in my throat. I shrieked again, and was answered by the deep moaning of the sea. A heavy bank of clouds sailed over the moon and obscured her light. There was nothing visible but the long stretch of dusky waters. My death, thought I, is near at hand, and my last moments are to be shrouded in pitying darkness. I could no longer bear the frightful situation. With a wild despairing cry, I closed my eyes, determined to end my life at once, and make no fresh struggle to keep my lips above the salt flood. My voice was answered by an excited question in Fijian: “Ah thava?” “What is that?” Could I be dreaming, or had I already passed into the world of spirits? I felt my head seized by a friendly hand, and then I sunk into unconsciousness.