George Speight's supporters prepare to slaughter a pig to feed the supporters
and journalists. Herald Picture / Kenny Rodger
Even in the middle of a coup there is always someone selling, and someone buying, Coca-Cola.
In the kitchen of Fiji's parliamentary complex there was a roaring trade in
this worldwide symbol of consumerism - despite the fact that the
kitchen was the engine of a compound under siege.
It was just one of many bizarre contradictions that peppered my time living
in the complex as an uninvited guest of coup leader, George
Speight. In those mostly sleepless 48 hours a sense of the normal amid the chaos
prevailed. Food for the hostages, Speight and his henchmen, their growing numbers
of supporters and the small media crew who stayed over was served at regular
times. A pecking order existed: hostages first, Speight's gang second, supporters
third and media last. The meals were all overseen by the head cook, known as
"Aunty," who controlled her kitchen staff with a loud voice. Her team
of 13 women and one man usually cook for Government ministers and some parliamentary
staff. Since the takeover attempt they have cooked for up to 1000. "I love
cooking and so I don't really mind who I do it for," Aunty said.
Her team churned out vegetarian dishes - for the Hindu Indian hostages - all ferried to them on white plates covered with Glad Wrap. The starchy white casava, taro and pork stew topped the menu for the rest. The produce - including live piglets, tied by their trotters to long poles - was provided by the supporters, Aunty said. A butchery with carcasses hung up to dry operated at the back of the kitchen. Although the kitchen crew were allowed out to collect clean clothes and visit family, they slept overnight in the dining room. This room was also the bedroom for the international and local members of the media.
At night mattresses - three large woven mats - were laid out, with squabs taken from lounge chairs acting as pillows. There were no blankets. The doors into the room had to be locked to keep out not only toads but the rising number of men marauding around the grounds.
Speight had allocated a no-walled bure next to the kitchen as the media's home and the place where he held his many press conferences. Various members of his armed commandos - particularly his gun-toting British Army-trained brother, Jim Speight - liked to wander in and out of this bure and chat amiably with journalists.
On one occasion, Jim Speight, wearing his trademark balaclava, checked shirt and shorts, wandered into the dining room (nicknamed Cafe De Coup by the media) and sat down to enjoy the pizza brought in by one of the locals.
Earlier he asked if I had been enjoying myself. My reply: "Are you?"
His answer: "If we're enjoying ourselves then you'll enjoy yourselves."
The bure was also the scene of a debate between George Speight and nine members
of the media. Ranging from suggestions that his
no-vote-for-Indians policy smacked of apartheid to his statements such as "I
don't give a rip" and "Rabuka was da man," this session was surreal.
Perhaps the clearest insight into Speight is his love of an American cartoon
called "Cow and Chicken." This cartoon - video copies of which were
apparently brought into the compound at his request - features a chicken chasing
a cow. The cow is the king but the chicken, like Speight, is a commoner. The
chicken always wins. Neither his 22-year-old partner nor their four-month-old
child was seen in the complex. One woman who went to school with Speight's partner
said she left
for New Zealand after sixth form. "She went to New Zealand and came back
as his accessory."
Although not a full-blooded Fijian, Speight said he was descended from a warrior
clan.
Certainly, repeated media requests to interview Prime Minister Mahendra Chaudhry,
held captive in the Government offices with the other Indian members of his
Government, easily provoked his anger.
The Government offices and the parliamentary chambers - home to the male and female Fijian ministers - were off-limits to everyone but his security staff, who stood guard. However, our plea for a clean shower, away from the one rough cubicle in the men's bathroom, provided a one-off chance to view the offices from the outside.
The hostages had hung up their jackets and clothes along the windows. Makeshift
cubicles could be seen and ceiling fans were keeping them cool. One Indian member
stood dazed, gazing out of
the windows while the circus continued around him.
Around the compound there was the constant sound of kava crushing. Bashing
this root into granules soft enough to be dissolved in water is hard work. The
thudding was reminiscent of the sound of a grave being dug. Nevertheless it
proved to be a popular drink. Groups of men -
including those associated with the kitchen staff - were frequently passing
it around by the half-coconut-full. Drinking it was also a tradition shared
when Speight met several chiefs and their villagers who had come to pledge their
support.
On Tuesday, Speight enjoyed one such kava, or "grog," session outside
the kitchen until 5 am.
By yesterday morning the mood of the place - like Speight's face - was tense.
Likewise, in the true style of Shakespeare's King Lear, the weather outside
mirrored the turmoil within. It was overcast, early morning mist hung low around
the bure and the air was full of impending rain.
A group of four male supporters had tried to get into the kitchen but were repelled
by kitchen staff.
It was time to leave.
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