TRAVERSE 195
She handed me a sliver of cassava root smeared with the chilli paste. I should have taken the warning from the way her neighbouring vendors leaned in with anticipation.
I chewed. For about two seconds, I was fine. Then, as if a fuse had burned down and ignited a powder keg in my sinuses, the fire arrived.
It wasn’ t just hot, it was elemental. Molten. Like some mischievous god of spice had decided to descend from the mountains of Viti Levu and take up residence in my throat. My eyes watered, my nose ran, and I emitted an involuntary groan that drew laughter from everyone within earshot.
Laisa handed me a bottle of Fijian spring water, barely suppressing her glee.
“ We call that wiliwili. It means to spin. Your head spinning yet?”“ Oh, it’ s spinning,” I croaked, tears streaming. But once the heat subsided, a warm buzz lingered, an edible adrenaline. I thanked her with a few coins and a newfound respect for Fijian chilli craft. I also understood that wiliwili means to count so assumed that it was in reference to a countdown to launch.
By now, the market was fully awake. Narrow aisles pulsed with barefoot children darting between tarpaulin-covered tables, women fanning flies away from glistening fish laid on crushed ice, and old men haggling over bundles of dalo as though reliving an ancient ritual.
The smell was a potent mélange, earthy taro roots, sour fermented coconut, freshly split pineapples, and the sharp sting of raw garlic. Mixed
TRAVERSE 195