Growing up on a remote island in Fiji, I seldom attended “church” as most Americans do. Our home was three miles from the nearest village, and surrounded by dense jungle on one side, and a deep-blue lagoon on the other. Our house was plopped right smack dab in the middle of 10 acres of tangerine, lime, papaya, and coconut trees. Wild ginger and gardenia bloomed year round, and during the dry season, the smell of ripe vanilla from my dad’s small plantation perfumed the air. I once counted 220 coconut trees in my “backyard” before I got bored and quit.
At one end of our property, my mom planted a garden, where she grew green beans, pumpkins, soybeans, peppers, eggplant, cabbage and ginger. My dad grew starch crops of taro, sweet potato and cassava. My job was tending our chickens and rooster. I loved them and called each one by name.
Although the village was just three miles away, it took us more than an hour to get there on foot. The road was unpaved, and during the rainy season, it became a thick soup of mud and rock. In the dry season, it was dusty and dotted with huge jagged stones that made walking difficul. So, though there was a large Catholic church in the village, as well as a small Methodist church, we were Baptists and had our services at home.
Early every Sunday morning, my family gathered on our large porch with other families who lived nearby, and “held church” in our own way. We sat on the floor, girls on one side and boys on the other. Babies cried and were rocked back to sleep, and if any of the children got out of line, we received a gentle poke from one of the older men. Clowning around was not tolerated. A majority of the service, or “bose” was singing traditional island hymns. We had no instruments but used our voices in four-part harmony. I don’t know how we learned to sing that way; but somehow, we all found the right part and it blended together perfectly. I loved singing with the women in the high Fijian falsetto and often wished we could skip the sermon and just sing!
My dad usually began the “bose” with a prayer asking God to bless the service. The children often were recruited to give the Scripture reading and help collect a small “soli,” or offering, which was then used to help pay for whatever tea or food was served following the service. After a few more hymns and choruses were sung, one of the men would give a short homily or lesson on the Scripture reading. Sometimes the lesson was given in Fijian; and other times, depending on who was present, it was given in Hindi or English. On special occasions, we excitedly welcomed visiting missionaries or guest speakers from the capitol city of Suva. On these mornings, there was a special musical number sung either by the men’s quartet or the women’s chorale. After church, we would drink sweet Fijian tea and eat crusty bread dripping with gooey, homemade papaya jam. Occasionally, on special holidays, the ladies would prepare giant tin pans of spicy fish curry, coconut laced greens and large platters of freshly caught fish and lobster. The men would weave flower garlands around the poles of our porch and lay huge grass mats on the ground in place of tables. We younger girls would fill small bowls of water for hand-washing and serve our elders. We considered it a huge honor to be the girl chosen to serve the visiting missionary or speaker.
“Bose” was held on Sunday morning, Sunday night, Wednesday evening after supper and every so often on Friday night. No matter the day, everyone dressed up for bose. Women wore brightly colored traditional saris if they were Indian, or sulu i jaba, ( long dresses worn over lower ankle-length skirts,) if they were indigenous Fijians. The fabrics were what Americans call Aloha fabric, but we Fijians call Bula fabric. The material was dyed eye-popping pink, orange, green and blue, and usually had prints of flowers, palm trees, fish and shells on it.
In addition to wearing their best clothing, women wore hand-pressed coconut oil on their skin and in their hair. Some women scented their oil with leaves and petals from mokosoi or plumeria trees.
One item every woman carried to bose, other than her well-worn Vola ni Tabu, or Bible, was a large fan, handwoven from voivoi, or razor grass. The heat in Fiji is sweltering, and after walking two or three miles to get to church, the fans provided welcome relief from the heat. A common sight in any bose, was women waving their fans back and forth to cool sleeping babies, elderly bubus, or fretting children.
In contrast to the brightly dressed women, men in the bose wore traditional sulu vaka Toga, a formal Tongan skirt for men. The sulu vaka Toga is made out of suit cloth, like American businessmen wear, but instead of pants, the fabric is sewn into a wrap-around skirt with pockets. It made an interesting picture when the large, muscled Fijian men with legs like tree trunks, knelt down to pray in their gray and blue skirts. Along with the sulu, men wore dress shirts and neckties. Some of the color combinations would make Americans laugh, but we thought they looked spectacular. In fact, the greater the contrast in color, the better the outfit! Men also wore large sandals I liked to call, “Jesus shoes,” because they looked like the sandals Jesus wore in all the Sunday school pictures the missionaries brought with them. When the men came to the steps of our porch, they would lean over and slowly remove their sandals, placing them in a heap on the bottom step. How they ever figured out which ones were theirs remains a mystery to me.
Every so often, a talatala, or pastor, from a nearby church, would make arrangements to come and preach a fiery sermon about the evils of drink or gambling. The men would cry and swear never to touch another drop, but usually within weeks, most would be back at the bottle or betting on local rugby games. Sometimes, missionaries from overseas would visit us and bring new Bibles, printed in English, which they handed out to one and all. Little did they realize those Bibles became prized possessions, tucked away in dressers and trunks and seldom read. Most of the folks could speak and read a bit of English, but preferred their Bible reading in Fijian or Hindi.
One of the great privileges awarded to kids, was being appointed to help set up and serve Holy Communion. I longed to be the one responsible for running to the shop just outside the village and buying the best loaf of fresh bread they had. The bread was broken into small pieces and handed around on a woven voivoi mat. Grape juice, purchased in advanced from town, was poured into a large tea mug and passed around, with everyone taking a small sip. None of us worried about germs or bacteria; and as far as I know, no one ever got sick from the communal communion cup!
Church, or Bose, was a large part of my childhood. It’s where I learned to read and where I saw my first map. It was in the back of a visiting missionary lady’s Bible, and was titled, “The Journeys of Paul.” I loved the cool pinks, greens and blues showing where the Apostle Paul had traveled and been shipwrecked.
Now, I am living in the United States. I attend a church my dad pastors. We have pews to sit on and fancy hymnals to use when we sing. We have a piano and microphones for our “Worship Team.” We have special crystal cups and silver trays for communion. The kitchen is stocked with coffee and snacks for the kids. There are Sunday School classrooms and an electric sign out front where the deacons put up phrases that say things like, “PRAY FOR YOUR ENEMIES!” and “LOVE ONE ANOTHER!”
I love my church. I love hearing about sin, forgiveness, Jesus, the cross and life everlasting. I wouldn’t trade my church for anything. Still, every so often, I remember our bose, with babies crying, fans waving and gentle island harmonies filling the air; and I say to myself, “Someday, when I am grown, I will return to my island, and I will coat my skin with scented mokosoi oil. I will put on my very brightest sulu and pick up my fan and Vola ni Tabu and greet my friends and family and sing harmonies I don’t understand. And I will think, “This is what heaven will be like,” and I will smile and listen as the talatala preaches yet again, about paradise.
