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loud, “Bulla, bulla.” He then took the cup and tipped the entire contents into his mouth and
swallowed it once. He smiled toothily around at us and said, “Now you!”
The process was repeated and Gavin and I self-consciously went through the protocol, clap-
ping slowly with cupped hands and swallowing the tea. I have to be honest and say that it
tasted hideous, like teak sawdust it did. How anybody could smile after swallowing a whole
bowl of this was beyond me. Soon afterward I did notice a slight euphoria in my head and
a not unpleasant tingling anesthetized feeling around my teeth and gums. We may as well
get used to this I thought, as the curry wasn't going to be ready for yet another three hours
we were informed by the cook, as he beamed around at us. Three hours! I groaned inwards,
I will never last that long. But somehow we did, and we clapped hands and dutifully said,
“Bulla bulla!” and swallowed the ceremonial drink. Actually the more we drank, the looser
our tongues became, and in the end we were chatting nineteen to the dozen, feeling pretty
fine and mildly intoxicated as well.
The men told us a strange tale about the locals on the island where they were from. We were
discussing mosquitoes, and how to deal with them. “Ooh no, you mustn't worry about the
mosquitoes, an' they won' worry about you mon,” said the one old man. “Where we come
from we let them bite us; we don' make any fuss when they bite, and soon the mosquitoes
see this an' he jus' fly away.” He waved his wizened hand through the air. I have since tried
this method of coping with mosquitoes, and I can categorically state that it doesn't make
the slightest difference; they still take as much blood from me as the little bitches can carry
away. Yes! It is only the female that does the biting. Hmm, food for thought!
After the hundredth time the curry was stirred and tasted and a little extra something was
added, it was finally and tenderly laid out on a bed of yellow rice and served with pride and
ceremony. “My good South African mahanga friends you must now eat our special curry,”
said the cook proudly, as he flourished the plates down to us into our eager out-stretched
hands. I only had one complaint as I laid ecstatically into this savory sweet smelling meal:
the servings were just too small. Never before or since have I had a curry that would come
close to the taste of the curry we had waited three hours for on a little island in Fiji one
night. I recall saying farewell to these kindly Indian carpenters that night and distinctly
heard and felt the kava sloshing about in my stomach; my teeth were awash.
The season was drawing to a close. I dug out the pilot books and began reading about the
voyage to Australia. Dave and Arlene had arrived in the anchorage at Malolo Lai Lai with
their cute year old baby daughter. It was Isabelle's first year birthday party which Gavin
and I were duly invited to. This was to be the last time that we would ever see them again.
I recall Dave gave Isabelle a handful of chocolate, and she ended up wearing most of it on
her sweet, innocent face, much to all our amusement.
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