Mrs Jessie Jackson of Nagaga, Savu Savu, Vanua Levu, Fiji

Carolyn is currently writing a biography of Jessie Jackson and, liking the two stories I've already told you about her, asked if I have any other memories of this magnificent, albeit tiny, lady.

I do. There was one BIG story - so integral to how I put together my view of how the world works, it's stayed vividly alive in my head all these years - I promised back in June I'd tell you but I haven't got around to yet.

Let's rectify that:

Back during our high school days, one holiday Ian Jackson took a bunch of us up to the family copra plantation, Nagaga, outside of the town of Savu Savu on the island of Vanua Levu.

Gorgeous place. The Tropical Dream: white colonial-style bungalow, leisurely plantation life, magnificent scenery. In fact, you know those giant posters they used to sell that you stuck up on your wall to pretend you had a tropical island view? Remember those? Well, that's the view from Nagaga's kitchen window, almost exactly.

 A Fiji plantation house, although NOT Nagaga,

just to give you some idea!

This one is in Vanua Balavu in the Lau Group.

Anyway, the BIG Mrs Jackson story: the day after we arrived, at sunset, a Sunday-best-dressed Fijian woman appeared on the lawn, silhouetted against the sky, standing patiently with her hands crossed over her waist in the most respectful "I have a request" Fijian manner. "I'd better go see what she wants!" said Mrs Jackson.

Mrs Jackson returned: "Seems there's an Australian woman moved into that old house in the mountains and she's very lonely and needs a visitor. I told the marama I had houseguests all this week, but that I'd go visit her next week!"

I noticed the lady leave reluctantly, walking down the drive and looking back constantly, as if she wasn't telling all and thinking maybe she should have.

Next evening, also at sunset, the marama was back again and this time she'd brought two other Sunday-best-dressed Fijian woman, and together they stood silhouetted against the sky, standing patiently with their hands crossed over her waist. Mrs Jackson came out to the veranda: "I have already told you, I will visit her next week!" she told them, most cross.

And the trio remained standing there, silently and patiently, until way after dark, but Mrs Jackson remained unmoved.

The next evening they were back, only this time there were a dozen of them, all in their Sunday best, and, as they stood silhouetted against the sky, they sang together in the most beautiful harmonies: "I will NOT be bullied this way." said Mrs Jackson. "Just ignore them.", which we did, although we kids did sit together on the dark veranda to listen to them sing, and it was sheer perfection; the sunset, the view, the singing, just perfect.

The next evening, there were hundreds of them; an entire village of Fijians, all across the front lawn, all dressed up, all singing.

Mrs Jackson broke! "OK, OK. I'll visit her tomorrow!" she shouted at the crowd, and they bowed respectfully and dispersed, which was a shame because I was enjoying the singing. "We'll make a houseparty of it and all go together." Mrs Jackson told us.

The visit was indeed a big deal because Mrs Jackson was up for most of the night, baking cakes, pies, scones, pikelets, mixing fruit juices, making bread and packing a huge picnic hamper full of goodies. Seems they don't do "visit" in half measures up there in Savu Savu.

She woke us all annoyingly early because it turns out it was a very, very long drive, up a single lane dirt road right up into the heavily jungled mountains. "Since she's Australian, I've packed that Vegemite that's been sitting in the pantry all these years. She'll appreciate it." Mrs Jackson told us in the car.

Ages later, high up in the mountains, in the deepest jungle, feeling carsick from all the winding turns, we came across ... a makeshift roadblock, just logs and branches, right across the road. "Will someone get rid of that!" said Mrs Jackson. Paper, scissors, dynamite! It was me, so I started to get out of the car when ...

... they leapt out of the trees, this tangle of tiny midget people, all armed to the teeth, shrieking and leaping up and down atop the car, screaming wildly as they slashed knives through the windows, trying to get us!

Frantic window winding and door locking!

Total confusion. Dangerous insane midgets covered from head to toe in mud and tribal symbols. Lekas? The mythical little people of Vanua Levu? And there was one on the car bonnet with a large kitchen knife trying to hack through the windscreen. And that's when I noticed: "Those are blue eyes!" I said in total astonishment, and then, as the creature and I looked at each other, I saw the insane rage leave those eyes and the midget monster turned into "just a little boy" again, and, boy, was he ashamed of himself.

He called to the others and instantly they were all ... just themselves again, and in abject embarrassment they removed the roadblock and we drove on through.

"It's Lord of the Flies." we all cried out in unison.

"Dear oh dear! I hope we're not too late!" said Mrs Jackson.

The house in the mountains was gorgeous: atop a ridge with a view to make you weep, it was a large, white-painted wooden colonial bungalow, all verandas and cool wide rooms in a lush orchid-filled, mown-lawn garden. You couldn't ask for more in your quest to live out The Tropical Dream!

All the doors were wide open, and "Hello! Hello! Is there anyone here?" we called out as we wandered through the house.

Silence!

"Dear oh dear oh dear!" said Mrs Jackson, discretely sniffing the air, trying to hide that she was trying to sense the smell of decaying flesh.

I started to sniff too. Then, in the kitchen, there was a acrid pong of urine. It seemed to be coming from behind the fridge. I called out but there was no answer, so I climbed on the bench and looked into the space behind the fridge: "There's someone in here!" I called out to the others!

"Is she OK?" asked Mrs Jackson. "Are you OK?" I asked the crouching figure, all insane, wildly matted hair and stinking body odour, staring blankly at nothing.

No reply.

"I think she's catatonic." I told Mrs Jackson.

"Hmmmph!" Mrs Jackson replied, although she hardly seemed surprised, then, inspired, "Get me that picnic hamper!" she told the others.

The hamper was carried in, and in what would have to be one of the best moments of my life, pure Wodehouse at his best, Mrs Jackson took out the Vegemite. Jar in hand, and with great aplomb, she cracked open the lid and "Watch this!" she said and she held the open jar as far as she could reach into the space beside the fridge.

I was still on the bench so saw it all happen: how slowly the smell filled the narrow space and slowly, slowly, slowly the woman's eyes came back to life.

Ah, Vegemite! Every nation needs an instant memory trigger for identity, and Australia is lucky to have one so immediate, so ubiquitous and so stinky.

Finally, she emerged, squeezing herself painfully through the winsy fridge-side space. Oh dear, she was so ashamed. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." she muttered into the matted hair all over her face and then, still not looking at us, she started to cry in these huge gulping gasps!

"Don't worry about a thing!" laughed Mrs Jackson. "Happens to the best of us!" and she took the filthy face into her hands, looked into her eyes, stroked away her insane hair and said very softly "You go now and take a bath. I'll take care of everything here." and gently pushed her out of the room.

"Put the kettle on, someone. We'll all sit down and have a nice cuppa!" Ahhh, Mrs Jackson at her best!

As we unpacked the picnic hamper, we noticed through the windows that the kids were arriving back, coming up the hill, dragging their feet and cane knives, then they stood in an embarrassed huddle on the lawn. Six of them! From about 12 downwards! And so unbelievably filthy! Mud caked over mud caked over mud, all fingered through their hair, all over their bodies, and slashed through with tribal designs and symbols!

"Sandwiches for anyone who has clean hands!" Mrs Jackson called out. Mad dash for the taps! Then she inspected hands before placing a Vegemite sandwich into them.

You know, Australians should compose hymns to the restorative powers of Vegemite because after only three sandwiches each those children were just fine! "Only clean kiddies allowed inside." Mrs Jackson told them, and "Go hose them off!" Mrs Jackson told us handing us the bar of Sunlight soap from beside the kitchen sink, and so, as Mrs Jackson set the dining room table with the household's best linen table cloth, china and cutlery, we took the children out to the taps in the garden and hosed off their tribal-ness and, after half a dozen separate scrubdowns each, saw them turn back into very cute blond-haired, blue-eyed, well-mannered little children once again.

Then their mother emerged, clean, combed and dressed, and all was normal. We didn't even have to pretend nothing untoward had ever happened as, together, we all sat around the dining room table, eating. Morning tea merged into lunch which morphed into afternoon tea on the veranda as we ate our way through the picnic hamper, talking, laughing, finding out about each other.

The kids were completely gorgeous and all loved fishing and wanted to know how to go about meeting people with boats and if we knew how to build a boat, and how they could build themselves a boat, and their mum, well, she was a very sweet, very civilised, very intelligent, very funny, newly divorced University Professor on Sabbatical with a research grant to spend a year in Fiji studying the way coconut trees ... no, I won't tell you any more about her because you would then be able to identify her and she DEFINITELY wouldn't want that!

It wasn't until the late afternoon shadows appeared that it was mentioned again, because there was definitely fear lurking there in the dark for this family and they all knew it. "We need to get you organised." Mrs Jackson told her, at her brisk best. "There's a village school only three miles down the road. Forget home schooling them. Send them there. They'll learn Fijian in no time and the primary education is good - didn't harm my boys - they'll make friends, and having to walk those miles up and down the mountain will burn off all that energy."

And then she called out into the jungle and several Sunday-best-dressed Fijian ladies materialised. Mrs Jackson knew they were there. Knew too that they'd been there all along, watching from the jungle, seeing how it was all spiraling out of control and aching with concern but knowing they were too alien to this family to make the necessary intervening moves themselves; it simply would have only exacerbated the desperately spinning spiral. "This is your new household staff." Mrs Jackson told her. Professor X objected, saying she was a Socialist and didn't believe in having servants! "Nonsense." said Mrs Jackson. "They need the money and you need the company."

And with that, the three nice maramas took charge, collected the dishes off the table and took them out to the kitchen to wash up.

If we were to make it home before dark, we'd left it too late, but if we were to get the worst of the mountain roads out of the way, it was time to go, so we all walked together out to the not-so-very-damaged-afterall car. And I'll never forget Mrs Jackson's parting words: "Here in Savu Savu we all know, because we've all been there, that we foreign ladies can flip out from loneliness at any time. The only way we survive is to become part of the local village. Trust me, these ladies will quickly make you one of their own." and then she nodded at the new household staff, standing by respectfully with their hands folded at their waists. "Be nice to these ladies ..." Mrs Jackson whispered to her. "They've already shown themselves to be the best friends you'll ever know in your life."

And we drove off, with the entire new clan silhouetted against the horizon and the perfectly beautiful sunset.

Ah, living out The Tropical Dream! Nothing quite like it, is there!