FIRE-WALKING IN FIJI

Press, Volume LXXIV, Issue 22593, 24 December 1938, Page 21

FIRE-WALKING IN FIJI

Where East Meets West'

(SPECIALLY 'WRITTEN POH THE PE.ESS.) [By BRIAN BEATTIE]

THE month of September (or. it may be October or November, owing to the variance between the Indian reckoning and ours) is the occasion in Fiji for a particularly barbaric form of “whoopee,” when the Madrasis hold their annual firewalking festival. The fire-walking itself is perhaps not so awesome as the accompanying phenomena of fanatical self-tor-ture and wizardry, which must hold the interest of the most sceptical spectator. Great preparation is necessary on the part of the participants, and for a fortnight before the event they remain in the temple of their god Kali—or rather goddess, as she is female. The temple is no miniature Taj Mahal, as one might expect to see, but* oblong in form surmounted with a tower reminiscent of a Japanese pagoda. Their time is spent in prayer and meditation, in complete isolation from husbands, wives, and families, for the fire-walker is not confined to the male sex alone; all who wish to give thanks to Kali by walking on the hot coals, can. Their food must not be defiled by hand other than their own, and for a bed they must curl up on the ashes of the fuel used for cooking. When the great day dawns, they array themselves in robes dyed yellow with haldi, pure curry powder, the goddess’s favourite colour, and take a sacred receptacle of pewter to the banks of the nearby river. Here the receptacle is filled with water, placed on the bank, and more prayer is resorted to. . There they remain until in some inexplicable manner that pitcher rises a full foot off the ground, without human agency. While preparations go on, the market nearby pursues its everyday activities. Imagine a little corner of India set down in the Pacific, and there you have the market. Stalls, displaying all the savoury delights dear to the Indian heart, are presided over by old crones and young girls (as far as possible to Judge) sitting cross-legged, and awaiting placidly for custom, or bawling above the babel of noise. Curry and roti, gulgula (a form of pancake), pourri (fried scones), jilavi (largescale spaghetti), and various sweetmeats are there for the purchasing. Each has its own peculiar smell—often nauseating to the casual visitor, but unnoticed by the hardy inhabitant. The gaudy apparel of the women, with their bi’ight reds, greens, blues, and yellows, contrasts oddly with the sophisticated Western dress of their menfolk. A fewold die-hards, still unreconciled to this dress, are there, adorned with a turban twisted from a common bath towel, and with their loins girt in a peculiar garment like a table cloth. Soon the beating of duffla, the Indian drums, has announced the successful noising of the sacred pitcher, and all leave the market and congregate about the path from the river to await the return of the firewalkers. At last an amazing procession comes into view round the turn in the path, to the accompaniment of a weird incantation and

frenzied dance performed to the savage rhythm of the duffia. The headman, or chief priest, pierced from head to foot with large brass skewers, through cheeks, lips, trunk, legs and arms, leads the column in a hypnotic trance, wildly springing one moment and lashing his followers with a barbarous-look-ing whip, then dragging leaden feet laboriously across the ground. Cohesion of movement seems entirely lacking. The remainder are similarly mutilated, yet not one drop of blood flows. All have the detached look of concentration of the sleep-walker. Their route is now to the temple, where all the barren women of the community have gathered, lying full length on the ground, to receive the blessed gift of fertility. The priests perform this by stepping over them. Next year, those who have given birth will themselves be in the procession to give thanks to Kali, and have their children carried across the fire by a priest. With all these preliminaries nowover, the great moment has come. All spectators move towards the fire pit. This is a large oblong recess in the ground in which tons of coal and other fuel have been burning for several days. There is no fake about this pit, for when the ashes are raked off the white hot coals are there for all to view. Out from the precincts of the temple come the chief performers in this spectacle. The crowd cleaves to let them through, and without hesitation right through the pit they go, some with a half-run. others with an unhurried nonchalance, 'to reach the other side unscathed. Naked infants, equally unconcerned, are taken through, and then it is over. While the Europeans ruminate on the inexplicable sight they have just witnessed, the market resumes its accustomed clamour. How do they go barefoot through fire? How is the levitation of the pewter jar performed? Why does no blood flow from the skewer wounds? Those are unsolved mysteries of the East.

Comic Wrappers Tons of coloured comic supplements to newspapers are stored at the Bush Terminal. Brooklyn, ready to be shipped to the west coast of Africa for sale to trading posts in the jungle. Traders wrap all purchases in the comic sheets, for the natives will not buy if ordinary wrapping paper is used, and their sales resistance falls in proportion to the amount of colour in the wrapping paper. It is not uncommon to see a native striding through the bush, his eyes popping eagerly at the doings of Jiggs or ullie the Toiler. Political Comment Among the political stories circulating by word of mouth in dictator countries, a favourite concerns three men sitting on a bench. One. who was reading a newspaper, exclaimed “Tch. tch!” The second eh. need at the paper and said. "Tch. tch!” Whereupon the third rose and announced, “If you follows are going to commit the dangerous felly of talking politics. I'm off.”