Membership Clubs and a Special Schooner

September 2012

The Northern Club, Lautoka; Seeking appeasement at The Lautoka Club; Three-masted top gallant schooner.

The Northern Club, Lautoka

We have popped by our long-time Canadian friend, Peter Kinsey, who has made Fiji his base with a home on a hill on a street called Blue Lagoon. He sits with his workers around a table on the verandah bordered by lush colourful tropical plants in bloom: Pataia, a Fijian electrician in his 60s; his 25ish-old son; Hala, Katalina’s young Tongan cousin; and 5ish-old Fergus, Peter’s Fijian ‘driver’ and security man.
 
A project of rewiring his house has come to an end and calls for some Kava. Peter is generous in spirit and respects the cultural ceremony of Kava drinking.  He, too, wants to give thanks for work well done.

Katalina, Peter’s Tongan wife, sits in an easy chair weaving a book mark. She has offered us a grated green mango and watermelon drink.

Her sister, Maria, sets a woven Tongan mat on the floor, brings out the huge Kava bowl, and starts mixing the root in powder form with water into a muddy-looking brew. The men find their places on the mat and Maria scoops the brew into a half-coconut shell and passes it to the first taker.

“That bowl was a gift from a surfer who stayed with us for a year!” Peter said. He saw that I was admiring the large wooden bowl that rested on three legs.

There was clapping as the shell got passed around and the men drank. Katalina joined the circle on the mat too to drink a few rounds. I sipped slowly on the mango drink sunk down into the easy chair.

“The tradition is to clap once when the ‘cup’ is passed to you and twice when you have finished drinking the kava out the shell.” Fergus (Underwood) explained. His green-gray eyes against a tattooed latte skin a unique feature.

I notice the more they drink, the more irregular the clapping got. There are lulls for quiet conversation as the mellowing takes effect (Russ claims he feels no effect, except a numb tongue). Background music is calming. Then someone gives a clap and Maria jumps into action and fills a shell and passes it along.

As a young girl in Tonga, she would mix and serve kava to the village men who drank the whole night away.

The bowl is emptied, the circle broken, and with quiet handshakes Peter’s workers quietly disperse--melt into the mellow night.

“Let’s go and have dinner and a cold beer at the Northern Club.” Peter suggests. “Have you ever been there?” He asks and when I answer no, says it is a pleasant place.

We neaten up to a degree, jump into the 4-wheel drive and Katalina finds a parking in The Committee’s spot as the lot is full. We make our entrance.

It is the watering hole of Lautoka. A South Pacific Colonial feel with a mix of expatriates, Indo Fijians, Fijians, and more-than-average older Caucasian men with younger island women.

“Bruce” seems 4 sheets to the wind. He is Caucasian, built bulky, and has a dull ex-boxer look to him with swollen eyes. He cuts a “gorilla” profile as he walks with a slouch and long arms swinging away from his sides from one place in the club to another.

His lady sits on a couch with a young boy, waiting for dinner. She is an island girl, most probably Fijian. Her hair is ear-lobe length, ironed straight and streaked blonde. She, too, looks like she belongs in Africa, with a very short Cheetah print dress cut on the bias with long points for a ‘hem’ of varying lengths creeping around her legs. Not sure that the jungles would accommodate her.

There, too, were the older gentlemen and ladies who looked as if they would be a good match for a gin and tonic and a verandah in India.  Young girls dressed fashion chic Fiji-style would make their entrance: through the wide doors and across the polished floors of the club lounge they sashayed, a little self conscious until they met up with their friends. Hugs and kisses all around. I’m inn with the in crowd exuberance is the sense.

At our table there are a mix of the following: Peter the tall handsome Canadian—once a single hander -- married to Katalina, whom I see as Queen of Fiji—sometimes a wild one with long black hair and honey skin and filled with laughter and high energy. He spotted her on a Tongan beach over 30 years ago.

“I want you!” he said. And that was that. He scooped her up and sailed her back to wet Vancouver Island on his 25 ft sailboat, Kailui. 

“But before we leave, Peter he take me for a small sail to an island. When we come back my father he stands on the beach and says: Peter must ask me for permission before he takes you away on the boat!” She laughs at the memory.

I don’t think Peter was in the permission-asking stage of his young, 27-year old saucy life then!

Maria, Katalina’s sister, is visiting from Tonga. She is tall and slender and quiet dressed all in black with a white Gardenia tucked behind her right ear. Her black hair is long, with a subtle highlight. She is understated and a giving person—hard working.

Russ a 'palangi' (as the Tongans call us white guys) and Yankee skipper of Zulu, always riding on the edge of life while assuming nothing went wrong as he falls off--Mr. Mellow who bends his elbow too often with Fiji Bitter in hand for thirst-quenching satisfaction. Water does not quench thirst is his belief!

Lastly, yours truly a somewhat wind worn Marilyn. Years of sun are leaving their mark, however still daring in life and eager to find the next most beautiful spot on the planet I carry on, now taking in the Northern club!

Russ walks up to the bar to get three Fiji Bitters. He comes back with this conversation to share:

“I just met a (white) guy who converted to the Muslim faith today. (Note: he mentions {white} guy because we are the minority in this Melanesian country). When I asked why, he said because he had married a Muslim woman. When I asked if he was happy about his new found faith? He said yes, because when he dies he will go to heaven and be received by 72 beautiful virgins. He then added that with his luck they would all be men!” Ha ha ha,too funny he thought as he laughed away—beer in hand. Hmmmm. Not sure?

The food arrives: fish and chips, grilled Walu, samosas, meat curry, more fish and rice and was eaten with relish with two white wines for Katalina and Maria and another round of beer of us 'palangis.'

This was the flavor of the night at the Northern Club—Lautoka’s meeting place.

“This is the only place in Lautoka that is a half-way decent place to spend an evening or to play a game of tennis and take a swim on a Sunday morning. This is our club.”

Ooooops someone has blocked us so that we could not get out of ‘The Committee’ parking spot! Announcement made. Indo-Fijian—most probably the committee member-- moves his shiny car. Into the night we drive—to the docks where Zulu lies at anchor awaiting us under the night skies.

Seeking appeasement at The Lautoka Club

“Would you like to go for a swim at the Northern Club?” Russ asks. It is a Sunday-- Fijian Father’s Day--September 9. Father’s day for a Yankee is June 9, or thereabouts. So Russ is not hinting that I take him out. He is attempting to appease.

“I'm going into Lautoka to pick up a case of wine and two cases of beer and will be back around Noon.” He said on Saturday, the previous morning around 9:00 AM. “Perhaps we can leave for Port Denarau when I get back.” He added as a toffee and hurriedly jumped into the dinghy and sped off.

Instead, he went on his usual 5-, 6-hour walkabout, then went to Peter and Katalinas for dinner and movies and stayed the night. I sat marooned all day in sweltering heat on Zulu anchored out with no dinghy or phone and no hint of breeze. Surrounded by murky, un-inviting water off Port Lautoka.

At sun set Saturday the sugar cane fields were lit on fire and the smoke and soot and flying ants hit Zulu full force. It was a choking, hell hot night with fine soot covering every inch of Zulu.

Sunday morning was 'make her happy morning'—not before zooming over to a schooner anchored close by to take a tour and shoot the breeze. What’s a few more hours for her to be stuck and stranded? I’m on a walkabout-roll. Putt, putt, putt putt. Bump. Footsteps on board. “Hi!” Like hey I’m back after a few hours—I mean day and night!

“Would you like to go for a swim at the Northern Club?” Not a good ice-breaker! But I caught the appeasement hook like a crazed fish out of water.

On with my bathing costume and a wonderful thought of cool water over my body. We take a taxi to the Northern club, having got Peter’s permission. (Trust me, the Northern Club is no exotic 5-star luxury club. It is typical ex-Colonial smoking and drinking den.)

It’s closed!

“Do you want a mango lassie?” Russ then offers ‘next best’ as we continue on the ride to appeasement. “Stop here at Chillis Coffee shop!” Russ calls out to the driver. Oops it’s closed too! Good morning, it’s Fathers Day!?!

“You want to go to the Lautoka Club?” The Indian taxi driver asked after driving to nowhere fast.

Sure, anything will do! Vanaka. Thank you. Who cares.

We stop at the Lautoka Club—a rectangle concrete building painted royal blue. It looks kind of like a hardware store. The garish sign reads: MEMBERS ONLY. WE HAVE THE RIGHT TO INSPECT YOU SHOULD WE SUSPECT YOU BRINGING YOUR OWN ALCOHOL ON SITE. Something to that effect. Charming!

Our entrance into the Lautoka Club as last resort non members is tentative with a tinge of the unenthused. Not that I am snobbish or expect too much.

“Two Fiji Bitters please.” Russ orders at the bar.

The place is virtually empty at mid-day Sunday. There are a few Indo-Fijians playing snooker inside. That is it.

I pick myself a red hibiscus to tuck behind my ear to bring a little flair into my world, and walk out onto a veranda, which runs the front length of the building with a high ceiling that rests on royal blue painted columns. I find a table at the end, where I can see the sea and feel the breeze.

The Fijian waitress brings the beer. First sip tastes so good and I feel for once I could chug a lug a few of them in the name of recompense.  A few more people dribble out to small tables on the lawn under huge shade trees--very pleasant. 

But the lawn out front is enclosed by a prison-like barbed wire fence. Was this to keep non-members out? Or members in?

Russ walks the periphery—he needs another walkabout, but is restrained by the fence--poor man. A small animal, with a long tail races across the lawn. Kind of like a mongoose.

Our second round of beers arrives, with my request for lots of limes. Some Indo-Fijians sit down at a table behind us. Very shortly afterward, one of the men walks up to the railing just to the left, but in front of our table and I thought he was spitting into the hedge below. Throwing a ‘lugi’ as the hip young would say.

Ooooooh! This is going to deter the enjoyment of beer drinking I think. To say the least!

More spitting, no this is spewing, like the fountains of Trevi, which in turn becomes plain and simple projectile vomiting.

“Could you please go and VOMIT someplace else?” I call out to him. This does not faze him as he is in mid stream.

He returns nonchalantly to his table behind us in time as if nothing out-of-the-ordinary has happened. It’s just another Sunday afternoon in Fiji. And I focus on the sea and pull the flower from behind my ear for added aesthetic visuals as a distract. I even managed a sip of beer after aggressively poking the lime with my straw for a stronger tang, when behind me Mr. Vomit appears.

“I’m sorry about that but it all just came out.” He says.

“Well you could have picked a better place to let it all come out—like the toilet.”

“Well, WE ARE MEMBERS here!!” He emphasized.

I think I muttered “I don’t care if you are King Farouk” as he melted back to his table—vomit stained.

More beer please! I need more appeasement! The Lautoka club is not cutting it!!

Rewind this day to never happened.

The three-masted top gallant schooner 
 
It is Monday morning and we are walking the dusty road outside of Port Lautoka to the liquor store to pick up the beer and wine, which was Russ’ Saturday priority errand. Hmmmmm seems like he must have got way laid?! It’s Fiji time though I forgot.

A gentle soul comes walking up carrying a cooler. “Marilyn this is Evan.“ Russ makes the introduction. “He is the owner of the schooner anchored near Zulu.”

Evan is lean and tanned with ear-length salt and pepper curly hair. He emanates calm.

“I have beer and ice in the cooler.” Said Evan.

Apparently Russ had asked Evan if he liked cold beer when he—Russ-- popped by the schooner on Sunday morning.  So Evan made the journey to town to pick some up and share with us. Sadly we had to continue on into town, so missed the refreshment and tour of the schooner.   

Before parting ways, I inquired more about his beautiful red boat.

Evan bought the three-masted top gallant schooner—Tern-- in Norway. It was built in 1920 for herring fishing. He has taken her around the world twice at a maximum speed of 2 knots! Wow!

The crew he enlists—4 to 16 at a time-- pay to sail ocean passages to gain the knowledge and experience. There are 8 bunks forward and 8 aft. Navigation and the galley are aft. He is currently assessing states of reefs in Fiji waters. So interesting!

However, has posted notices for crew as he is headed for South Island, New Zealand in October for the hurricane season. One crewperson asked how long the trip would take. 20 days he said!!! Wow! That is like crossing an ocean. It takes Zulu approximately 10 days to reach North Island, NZ from Fiji.

Wish I could have heard Evan’s world stories over a cold one, with some sea shanties as background to wind and wave and creaking planks.

Instead, I thank him for gracing the horizons with such a beautiful boat. He smiles wide, holding on to the cooler with wistful expression. We wave goodbye reticent to leave.

Evan has sailed his schooner around the world twice, at max speed of 2 knots! It was built in Norway in 1920 and used to fish herring. He will go to South Island, NZ for the hurricane season with 20 days for the passage!

I share Tennyson’s poem with you, fitting for the sailors who have earned the salt of life making passages on three-masted top gallant schooners in what I thought were only days gone by.

Crossing the Bar 
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For though from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.

Note: In searching for a poem to remember Russ' wonderful father by when he died, my poet friend Jeannie Mehan gave this to me to use for celebrating his life. How beautifully appropriate.