BELA FOR A KABU

 The sound of tavuli echoes in the distance accompanied by fearsome shouting. It is still so far away that by the time it reaches my village it fades into the reverberating cries of a distant war. 

Baleo is quiet for a village preparing to host a big kabu. Smoke filters through the thatched roof of several huts, drying the dew left from the previous night and sending geckos clambering out from their hiding places between the woven sago palm leaves. Inside the huts women are busy preparing food, undeterred by the suffocating smoke and the heat of the fire. 

My Nana is in our kitchen, the little hut next to our sleeping house. She is cooking cabbage, kumara and uvi by placing red hot stones in the popo with the food. She then covers the popo with banana leaves, and ties a rope around it to hold the leaves together. I was helping her until I heard the tavuli and shouting.   

         My family had lived in Baleo ever since I was a kid, although my Nana tells me that our ancestors were originally from some inland places that I’ve never been to. Baleo is the only home I’ve known. 

This story occurs long ago; long before white people came to our islands. It is a story from my previous life as a little girl.

Baleo nestles between the Kaichui Mountain Range to the north and the Tasimauri sea, which washes onto the village’s pebbled shorelines. At the eastern end of the village, the Kolokora River crawls down from the mountains and into the waiting embrace of the Tasimauri sea. 

The mountains behind the village rise gently and then quickly climb into steep slopes of over a thousand feet. They are carpeted with thick tropical rain forests, home to plants and animals that we depend on for our livelihood. On the mountain side, patches of the rain forest are cleared to make kake and uvi gardens. The valleys cradle kumara, tapioca and vegetable gardens. There are groves of betel nut plantation along the many streams that crisscross like arteries under the canopy of the rain forest.  

A group of girls my age gather under the shade of a leqa tree at the middle of the village. They are my relatives and friends. Some are from Baleo while others are from the nearby villages, here to help prepare for the kabu. 

“Hey, Kake, Nana e koea tavuli mana haila e saurongona kova bela ni Kolobisi e mai,” Sovea says as I join the girls. Sovea is my cousin, and like me, she is about fifteen-years-old. We count our years following the yam/uvi seasons. We are, therefore, born fifteen uvi seasons ago.

Everyone calls me Kake, a short for my full name, Limanikake, which means ‘the hand of the taro’. That name was given to me because my Kukua is a great taro farmer. 

“Eo a belana bolo mana kake mana uvi,” Vange chips in as she pulls up her grass skirt, which had dropped below her little hip. She is my elder sister’s talkative seven-year-old daughter. 

“Nia o rongonia laka,” Sovea remarks as the sound of the tavuli and shouting slices the silence. It is now closer and I could make out the different sounds from the orchestra of tavuli backed by the war cries. 

“Ghira harangi mai!” I say excitedly as I huddle closer with the other girls. Our grass skirts rustle against each other. 

Our grass skirts are made from the bark of young koqa tree. The inside of the bark is peeled and then soaked in water for a couple of days. It is then dried under the sun and then made into grass skirts. So, you see, it isn’t made of grass as the name suggests.

“Eo ghira harangi mai tahu neni,” Sovea says excitedly. “Keeee! Rongonia, o rongonia? A ileile na avona tavuli.” 

The tavuli and shouting announces the arrival of a bela, a wooden platform carried by twenty, or so men accompanied by many more. The aim is to make as much noise as possible. On the bela they carry a pig or two and heaps of uvi, kake, and betel nut. This is brought as a contribution from one taovia to Kukua who is hosting the feast. That is why a lot of people had gathered at Baleo.

 “Nau rongo matahu a tavuli mana haila,” Vange says as she moves closer to me. 

“Eo e rorongo matahu vaha vai labusi e chau; a mate e mai,” I say pulling her closer. I had never seen this before because it is something reserved for big and important feasts.

The noise from the tavuli and shouting pierces the mid-morning air, sending the flying foxes that sleep on the banyan tree at the end of the village flapping away in fearful disarray. 

 “Kake!” I hear my Nana’s voice behind us. “Ghamutolu a baka daki mutu balihi ai. Daniba bela daka liu mai si ai.” 

We move behind a small hut where we continue to watch, whispering and giggling. Close by a group of women, some carrying their babies on their hip, just above their grass skirts, are chatting and laughing, enjoying each other’s company. 

At the other end of the village, a group of children play in the shade of a koilo tree, shouting and imitating the tavuli. 

By then the bela is much closer, judging from the noise. The men and young boys from Baleo and some from the nearby villages stand in a group in the middle of the village ready to receive it.

“Koivo, Kimo, Laua mai ghamu qare borau mutu tui nagho ma mutu daua bela tahuna ka mai vahaneni lihina niu baka,” says my uncle Kivisimate, pointing to a coconut tree at the middle of the village. Uncle Kivisimate is responsible for receiving the bela. “Ghamutolu a baka qare mutu vangarau a daua bela usua tahuna ratolu daua i nagho.” 

No sooner had he said this then a fierce-looking party of men appear at the eastern end of the village. They climb up the banks of the Kolokora River, shouting, and blowing about five tavuli, each bellowing out different sounds into a thundering chorus. The sound is deafening and the sight fearsome. Their face and body are painted with black and white paints. They are dressed with leaves and carry pretend spears as they walk, half running, into the village shouting and blowing the tavuli. 

About twenty men carry the bela. On it two huge pigs lie on their side squealing with fear. Their feet are tied together then tied to the platform. They are surrounded by heaps of uvi, kake, betel nuts, bananas, and other food crops. 

“Lua ratolu tu mai. Lua ratolu tu mai!,” uncle Kivisimate shouts commands as the group with the bela dance around in a war-like fashion. “Pitu! Pitu! Lua ratolu tu mai tavalia bela. Basia sare!” he instructed the men and boys waiting to receive the bela.  

My friends and I froze with fear and excitement. Vange grabs my right leg tightly, shaking and suddenly very quiet, which is unlike her. 

“AAAa oooohhhh!!” uncle Kivisimate gives a loud and frightening shout as he runs towards the bela and grabs the front end. Other men and boys follow his example. Soon the two groups are pushing and tussling with the bela, all the while shouting and blowing the conch shells. Some of the women are also shouting and kids are crying. It looks like a chaotic fight. The pushing and tussling goes on for about 20 minutes.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, my seventy-year-old Kukua appears and  stands next to the bela, waving a couple of strings of red shell money in the air. 

“E sola! E sola! Dou! Dou! Talu sivoa!” my Kukua shouts, waving the shell money and tapping the men on their back. “Talu sivoa bela! E sola! Dou! Dou!” 

My Nana and a couple of aunties are also there begging the men to put down the bela.

After what seems like forever, the men slowly put down the bela. They take deep breaths, smile, laugh and excitedly greet each other. This mock fight over the bela is all part of the ceremony. The men all know each other and are not really fighting.

Kukua climbs onto the bela and puts the strings of shell money on the pigs. As soon as kukua does that, Konihavo appears from behind the group of men who had brought the bela. He is about the same age as my Kukua. The two are taovia, closely related and friends who regularly visit each other. But today they seem to have special respect for each other.

“Ighoe o solou to mai to tabegho na kabu neni, mai nau taiha tamanina kacha maleo. A limaqu bola soba. Iqo kei e pocha mau vitolo. U taiha tamani to dona sangagho. Ghamitolu tari maia sola cha dalena bolo buri buri mana visana lakana molumolu daki baka ghira nia chaulia. Ghoe o naua mai nau vahama rongona nau a tiviqu bola,” Konihavo bursts into a kind of oratory I had never heard before, demeaning himself and the gifts he brought, and decorating his oratory with words I had never heard. It is oratory with such grace that it could move you to tears. In fact, I swear I saw my Nana and aunties wiping their eyes. This is oratory reserved for occasions like this. 

“E taiha tolo. Dou soba. Dou s ighoe o mai mo taho maira baka mai tatolu ghoro sai. Tatu vitolo me dou soba. Daniba hania visana ngeuna beho soba,” my Kukua responds. 

Baleo is now crowded. People are here to participate in the feast. I overheard my uncle saying that about a hundred pigs had been collected so far and heaps of kake and uvi. Kukua had been preparing for this feast for years. 

Feasts are occasions when taovia show off and distribute their wealth, built and strengthen alliances and maintain their status. That is what makes one a taovia. Feast-making is the center of politics and social bonding. Pigs, kake, uvi, bananas and other food crops and shell money are important to feasting.

Most taovia host one feast in their lifetime. This is my kukua’s second feast. The first was before I was born. 

After the fury of speeches, Konihavo, my Kukua and other elders retreat to under the shade of a daolo tree at the center of the village where they chew betel nut, chit chat and laugh. 

That evening as the sun sets in the horizon overlooking the Tasimauri sea and the night wraps darkness around us, we sit on a chinike and eat kake, uvi and pork for dinner. I am tired, but I wait patiently for the lele and kuko to start. 

This is truly a beautiful day and the sound of tavuli is still humming in my ears as I lie on the chinike and watch shooting stars race across the sky to I don’t know where.

 

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