What is a Kava Ceremony?

In Fiji, upon entering a new village or household, you might be encouraged to participate in a kava ceremony. If, in advance, you are familiar with the Fijian etiquette, you would provide the kava plant yourself, in the same way you would bring a bottle of wine to a dinner party. Kava is a root from a pepper plant which, having been ground into a fine powder and mixed with water, becomes a murky, tea-coloured drink, sacred to the community. In order to prepare us to receive this drink, Lulu, our Fijian Project manager, set up a practice ceremony on the veranda to cover the basics during training.

Before stepping onto the patio, Leah bade us remove our flip-flops then seat ourselves directly opposite the project manager in a semi-circle. And so quietly, we did so, like school kids in an assembly. A wooden bowl, big enough to bathe a small baby in, had been placed at the centre of the patio, suspended on a four-legged stand. Lulu, a jolly Fijian in his twenties, welcomed us from behind it, where he sat, cross-legged, in a sulu. (‘Sulu’ is the Fijian word for a sorong, a long rectangular piece of cloth tied at the waist, worn by both the male and female party.)

‘Do you see the shell?’ he asked, pointing to a small cream sea-shell bound with rope to the bottom of the bowl; the pointy end facing us. ‘This indicates the front of the bowl,’ he said. Some of us shuffled and cradled our delicate ankles, too tender for the hard wooden floors. ‘Usually, when we drink kava, the chiefs sit at the front of the bowl and everyone else sits behind, but today, you are the chiefs.’ He laughed heartily at this. ‘On your first day in the village you will sit at the front, as guests. But after that, you must always sit behind the bowl.’

We nodded.

‘So now,’ said Lulu, ‘I am making the kava.’ He was joined, at this point, by our other Project Manager, Saki, who began filtering the kava plant into the bowl and straining it through a cloth. ‘During a kava ceremony, you sit cross-legged and cover your knees.’ We had all been given sulus prior to ceremony which were ours to keep as we pleased: they were neon pink and plastered with the Think Pacific logo, but at least they covered our legs. ‘Fijians love kava; we like to drink it all times of the day and on any occasion.’ We smiled as he sifted through the liquid once more, now a muddy colour. ‘Has anyone tried kava before?’

Sarah and CP raised their hands, tentatively. I turned to them with surprise.

‘Once, in a shop in Fiji,’ said Sarah.

‘And did you like it?’ asked Lulu, a smile edging at his lips.

The girls looked at each other. ‘Not really…’

Lulu threw his head back and chuckled. ‘It is an acquired taste.’

Saki and Lulu stopped stirring all at once, and began clapping and ululating over the bowl, which caught me a little by surprise. Then, with a final round of applause, they dipped a small cup into the bowl, scooped out the kava, and presented it to Ferg.

‘Ferg and Leah are your chiefs tonight,’ Saki said.

Ferg clapped once, took the cup, said ‘Bula vinaka!’ and swallowed the liquid whole. He passed the cup back to Saki, who, clapping, said ‘Madre, madre,’ and Ferg completed his turn by clapping three clear times.

Saki filled another cup and Leah followed the same procedure. This set an example for all of us to follow as two cups were passed from each end of the line, allowing us to drink in turn. One only had to say ‘Bula!’ (greetings) or ‘Bula vinaka!’ (greetings and thanks) the first time you received a cup at a ceremony; any more servings and the words were optional. Similarly, you were expected to drink the first cup you were offered at a ceremony, but if you wish to politely refuse another, then you can say 'vinaka' (thank you), sit back and let others have a turn - except Fijians love it when you ask for more and more kava.

When, at last, it was my turn, I clasped the cup in my hands, only to realise I was holding the polished inside of a coconut shell. 'Bula vinaka', I said, and downed it in one. And how glad I was for it - 'mud water' they said? Well mud-water it was. So bitter.

‘Tastes a bit like a chai latte without the sweetness,’ I whispered.

‘Yeah it does, actually,’ said Matty, who was sitting next to me.

The process of finishing a kava bowl is a social one. Between rounds, recipients are free to chat and stretch their legs - as long as their feet aren’t facing the bowl. And so Lulu, displaying typical Fijian qualities, gabbled away, creating lively reconstructions of his most disastrous kava nights, like a uni-student relaying their worst hangover stories. The plant itself, you see, is a mild narcotic. Fijians drink kava the same way we drink alcohol. But whereas we might have a beer, wonder around, dance and become more confident with the passing time, Fijians sit for hours around one kava bowl becoming increasingly tired, slouched and uncommunicative.

‘I once had kava for fourteen hours,’ said Lulu.

‘Fourteen hours!’ someone squealed.

‘Yep. And then when I got up, I ran far far away so that I no one could see me and I chundered behind a tree.’ He guffawed, and seemed to draw so much amusement from his story that his laughter was contagious. ‘It will help you sleep though.’

And after another hour, when we had emptied the bowl of its last drop, we curiously slept very soundly ourselves.