Fara Way 7

But it was time to dance. Not the Fara way dancing of the night migrations, but the traditional tautoga rectangular rows and columns of the hafa, half of the group on one side men, the other half on the other side women. They wore powder blue hạ' fạli lava-lavas, red and white collared shirts and blouses, red and white and yellow pandanus fruit garlands, and tropicbird tailfeathers. The accompaniment behind them beat a pile of old mats with large sticks, to keep time. The men jumped from side to side, or in circles, or scanned the horizon back and forth, with a raised flat hand blocking the sun from their eyes, feet apart, clowning and clapping and yelping and grunting ‘hui'i, hui'i, hui'i, hui'i,’ in syncopated exhalations. The women were constrained to graceful subtle motion, feet together and hands clasped, until they weren’t and the story-telling motifs began. They sang the third and fifth above the notes of the men, some breathing while others vocalized, spinning the music into a continuous hypnotic thread of verse. After each set, the dancers in the front would drop back, allowing the row behind them to come forward, and begin the rhythms of their ancestors all over again.

“Is your harvest festival like this in Canada, Wink?” Julie asked. I conjured up a mental image of our country fair.

“Not quite like this, Julie.” I said. “Not quite.”