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broken only by the glint of a river in the distance. In the near distance men could be seen with machetes as they seemed to harvesting taro, perhaps for a feast or simply for the local market.
It reminded me of a meal I’ d had at a small roadside restaurant called Nena’ s Kitchen. I’ d been told it was called lamb rourou, where the leaves of the taro plant had been stewed in coconut milk, along with the tender lamb pieces. It was easily one of the best meals that I had ever had, and I daydreamed that the locals were having a feast of lamb rourou tonight.
A man, a subsistence farmer, said that many people in the area grew traditional foods and yet yaqona was taking over as the plant’ s value had increased as demand from exporters
surged.“ Before, we grow for drinking,” he said.“ Now, everybody wants to sell.”
It was a subtle reminder that even here, miles from any tour bus route, the tendrils of the global economy were being felt to the point of threatening a traditional lifestyle. Everywhere we rode, we saw echoes of tradition, men working fields, women weaving pandanus
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