# "Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack Chapter 110"
The tropical sun blazed over Fiji's coral reefs, where thatched bures (huts) lined white-sand beaches and outrigger canoes glided across turquoise waters. Su Yao's boat anchored at a small island, passing women in *sulu* skirts pounding bark with wooden mallets and children diving for seashells, until it reached a village centered around a *malae* (sacred meeting ground). In the shade of a massive banyan tree, a group of weavers sat on pandanus mats, their hands stretching and beating strips of mulberry bark into thin, papery sheets.
Their leader, 65-year-old Adi Mere, looked up from her work, her silver hair wrapped in a red *liku* (grass skirt) scarf. She held up a finished *masi* (tapa cloth)—a cream-colored fabric decorated with geometric patterns in black and rust, stamped with carved wooden blocks. "This is our *vakavanua* (custom)," she said in Fijian, her voice warm as the trade winds. "It carries the stories of our ancestors, the strength of our chiefs, the blessings of our gods."
Fijian masi making, a craft dating back over 2,000 years, is steeped in ritual and community. The process begins with harvesting inner bark from *masi* (mulberry) trees, done only by women during the waxing moon to ensure the cloth "grows strong like the moon." The bark is soaked in river water, then beaten for hours with *ike* (wooden mallets) carved from *vesi* (rosewood)—each strike timed to *lali* (drum) rhythms that "awaken the tree's spirit." "We beat in groups," Adi Mere's granddaughter, 23-year-old Laisa, explained, showing a masi stamped with *tanoa* (kava bowl) motifs. "My grandmother leads the songs—*'Isa Lei'* (a traditional lament) to soften the bark, *'Cibi'* (war chants) to make it strong. Too many beats, and it tears; too few, and it's weak. You don't just make masi—you negotiate with the tree."
Stamping the patterns is equally sacred. Wooden *tapa* blocks are carved by *taukei* (elders) with symbols that tell family histories: *dau* (turtle) for longevity, *vau* (bamboo) for resilience, and *siva* (dance) patterns for celebration. The dye, made from *koka* (black mangrove bark) and *tui* (red earth), is mixed with coconut oil and blessed by a *bete* (priest) to "make the patterns stick like memories." "We stamp during *sevusevu* (gift-giving ceremonies)," Laisa said, pressing a block into dye and onto the cloth. "Each motif is a prayer—this turtle will protect the baby who wears this masi."
Su Yao's team arrived after their Sámi project, drawn to masi's blend of fragility and cultural weight. They brought samples of seaweed-metal threads woven into the bark fibers, hoping to create a fabric that retained masi's delicate texture while adding durability for everyday use. But when Lin displayed a machine-pressed sample with printed patterns, Adi Mere's husband, 68-year-old Ratu Jone—a *chief* with a whale-tooth *tabua* necklace and a walking stick carved from *dalo* (taro) wood—let out a low growl. "Your machine beats without *mana* (spiritual power)," he said, sweeping the sample into the sand. "Our masi remembers the hands that harvested it, the songs that beat it, the prayers that stamped it. This thing is a ghost—it has no *mana* to protect."
Tensions flared when Cyclone Yasa battered the island, uprooting mulberry trees and flooding the river where bark was soaked. The weavers' stored masi, rolled in *kikau* (pandanus) mats, lay waterlogged in a bure, their patterns bleeding into blurs. "The gods reject your metal thread," Ratu Jone muttered as men cleared fallen trees, their *lali* drums silent for once. With the *Vula-i-Ratu* (chief's moon) festival approaching, when new masi is presented to honor tribal leaders, the community faced disaster. "Without masi, we have no gifts for the chiefs," Adi Mere said, staring at the ruined bark. "Without gifts, we shame our people."
That night, Su Yao sat with Adi Mere in her bure, where a clay pot of *lovo* (underground-cooked pork) simmered over a fire, filling the air with the scent of coconut milk and ginger. The walls were hung with masi scrolls depicting battles and weddings, and a small shrine held a *tanoa* bowl and a coconut offering for the god of the sea. "I know masi isn't just cloth," Su Yao said, sipping *kava* (a ceremonial drink) from a wooden cup. "It's a language of respect, a bridge between past and present. We want to learn to speak it, not silence it."
Adi Mere smiled, passing her a piece of *dalo* (taro) cake. "My *nana* (grandmother) used to say that even torn masi can be mended with sacred thread," she said. "But your metal—maybe it's a sign. Young people buy cotton now, not masi. They don't know the songs or the symbols. We need to show them our *vakavanua* still has power."
Over the next three weeks, the team worked alongside the weavers. They helped replant mulberry cuttings, their hands stained green from the sap, and trekked to a freshwater spring with Ratu Jone to collect clean water for soaking bark, learning to chant the *bula* (life) prayer as they filled their gourds. "*Bula vinaka, masi vinaka* (Live well, good masi)," they sang, their voices blending with the Fijian words until the rhythm felt like the pulse of the island.
Lin experimented with coating the seaweed-metal threads in *coconut oil* and *koka* dye, a mixture Fijians use to preserve wooden canoes. "It needs to move like masi, not against it," she said, showing Adi Mere a swatch where the metal threads had become almost invisible, reinforcing the bark without stiffening it. Adi Mere held it up to the sun, watching light filter through the fibers like through leaves. "The tree spirit accepts this," she said.
Fiona collaborated with Laisa to design a new pattern: *dau* (turtle) motifs swimming into ocean waves, with metal threads outlining the turtles' shells to make them shimmer. "It honors your island and our sea," Fiona explained, and Ratu Jone nodded, running a finger over the carved block Laisa had made for the design. "The turtle swims between worlds," he said. "This masi understands its journey."
On the night of *Vula-i-Ratu*, the weavers gathered on the *malae*, where their collaborative masi was spread across a platform lit by torches. The fabric glowed in the firelight: turtles with shells of stamped bark, their flippers merging into waves woven with metal threads that caught the light like fish scales. Adi Mere draped a corner over Su Yao's shoulders—a turtle and a wave, stitched together with bark and seaweed-metal thread. "Now you're part of our *vanua* (land and people)," she said.
As the team's boat pulled away at dawn, they could hear the *lali* drums starting again, and from the deck, they saw Laisa teaching children to beat bark with mallets, the metal thread spooled beside her. Su Yao thought of the new mulberry shoots, pushing through the soil, and the way the metal threads had learned to strengthen the masi without overshadowing it—how foreign elements, when wrapped in humility, could become part of a tradition as old as the islands.
Her phone buzzed with a message from Norway: Astrid had displayed their collaborative *lávvu* cover at a Sámi cultural fair, inspiring young weavers. Su Yao smiled, typing back: "We've added new patterns in Fiji—your turn to weave something that honors the old ways and the new."
Somewhere in the distance, the *lali* drums merged with the crash of waves on the reef, a harmony as ancient as the Pacific and as new as the rising sun.