As the name may suggest to those Spanish speakers among you, it is hot in the Solomons. Blazingly, wiltingly, drenchingly hot. Not as humidly suffocating as the Paraguayan summer, the sun not as piercingly bright and relentless as in Jordan, but nonetheless a heat as intense as any I can remember experiencing. At midday, whether on the beach, out in the dusty streets, or most of all when aboard a little boat out in the endless expanse of dazzling sea, the light of the huge Pacific sky above seems to take malicious pleasure in directing its rays at you from all angles.Midday, unfortunately, is exactly the time when my belly starts rumbling and I head out for my daily fish and chips, fish curry, fish stir-fry or the delicious raw fish of the Fijian kokoda. Only mad dogs and Englishman… the saying goes. Well, that does not apply in these parts, for at lunchtime the streets are as crowded as at any other time. More true, perhaps, is that only mad dogs and Englishman would attempt to flee something as inevitable as the sunshine. In my early and naïve days I was like a panicking Spanish ant desperately trying to escape little Juan and his magnifying glass. I would step out into the battering ram of heat and, immediately overwhelmed, put my head down and hurry off, accelerating my pace increasingly as I got more and more befuddled. Big mistake. Within 50 metres your face turns bright red, you break into a sweat and by the time you reach your destination your back and your shirt have become inseparable.
Over the course of my first few weeks I soon learnt the error of my ways. It is a steep, and sweaty, learning curve, but over time my technique has become increasingly refined, modelled on the languid ambling masters all around me. Walking slowly, of course, is essential, but is not enough in itself. I have realised that the trick is to focus your mind on using as few muscles as possible. With your head up, leaning back ever so slightly, you lift your legs as if strings are attached to your knees while your arms naturally swing in slow wide arcs by your side. A bit like swaying to a reggae beat. The rest of your body meanwhile should stay as relaxed as possible, in particular the mind, for which wearing sunglasses is essential. And that, basically, is that. In this way you can saunter the streets, somehow staying cool(ish) despite the heat pressing from all sides, protected by the cucumber cool mental barrier you erect around you.
I always think of Edinburgh when walking in this way. Heading to uni during winter, an icy wind sweeping across the meadows, the exact opposite applied. On the criss-crossing diagonals you join the lines of students trudging purposefully in both directions, barely speaking, heads down, hoods up, reluctant to look up even to appreciate the beautiful and imposing bulk of Arthur’s Seat, in the knowledge that you are liable to get a blast of cold air down the neck. In this environment, I remember a friend wisely noting on one particularly wet and cold afternoon, as you brace every sinew to keep warm and get out of the cold the toe muscles in particular can provide an extra few inches to each step.
Other news this week:- As you no doubt saw on the front page of The Guardian, the winner of Solomon Islands Pop Idol 2006 was….. Mark Vision! I was there of course, die-hard Pop Idol fan that I am (along with half of Honiara, many of whom couldn't afford the 70p to get in so watched through the walls, see photo below). And even though he just pipped my own favourite, a certain Faye Indu, to first spot, it was hard to begrudge him his moment of glory. Though a young and relatively simply dressed chap he was clearly the crowd’s favourite, partly for his deep crooning voice and partly for his eyes screwed shut, slightly hunched-over posture as he went full whack at “sending prayers to the lord”, clicking his fingers all the way. I happened to be sitting next to one of his wantak, and when he did his final song I could barely hear a word for the barrage of whistles, whoops of excitement and crys of “Mark Vision, Mark Vision” about a foot from my earhole.
- I am now the proud owner of 136 (perhaps!) ripe bananas after a huge bunch ripened on one of my trees. Averaging only two per day myself, I’m not quite sure what to do with them, aside from gaze at them fondly nestled in the corner of my kitchen. I’ve already given several bunches to neighbours and colleagues, though the geckos also seem to have taken a liking to the mushy ones at the bottom. Other fruit with which my little Eden has stocked my fridge this week include 10 guavas (at the price of getting attacked by the huge red ants that seem to think the tree is theirs), one large papaya and several bunches of little red chilli peppers.
- I’m heading off for Christmas in the West(ern Province) from next Saturday, so won’t be writing for a little while, but I’m returning on New Years eve to see what the bright lights of Honiara have to offer. In case I don’t get a chance to write before I leave, Merry Christmas to all of you, wherever you may be. In particular, a big surreal Season’s Greetings to those among you who, like me, will be spending Christmas away from family in a hot climate and will be barbequing their Christmas grub (South Pacific, Middle-East, Africa and South America). And please remember, as I’m frequently reminded by circulars on the work intranet, it is important at this time of year not to forget the real reason for Christmas. Which in the eyes of a heathen like me is of course… eat like a pigpig and get spaka. All love. xx
Anyone reading the descriptions of my Solomon life on this site could be forgiven for thinking that life here is literally a beach… descriptions of work are notable by their absence I sense. Judging by the questions I’ve received in emails, this has not escaped the notice of my more eagle-eyed friends and family. Questions have ranged from the innocently polite (“How and what is work?”), to the coaxing (“Tell us what you do in a typical day?”), and more commonly the indignant and abusive (“Will man, get your arse off the beach and do some f***ing work you lazy bastard” was one peach). While this last is not technically a question, the widespread (mis)perception it reveals has persuaded me to take action and actually write a few words on what it is I’m doing here.
There are actually good reasons why I have so far avoided writing about this topic. First, it has taken a fair bit of time for me to get a sense of what the work will involve. Second, the blog being public and all, I was wary of writing things that people at the Central Bank might inadvertently read; although writing a blog provides a great motivation and structure to keep a record of my life here, the downside of the medium is catering for the diversity of people reading, so apologies if any of what I write causes offence, and if any friends etc want to know about aspects of life here less fit for public consumption then please email and I promise I won’t mince my words. Thirdly and probably most decisively, it requires less effort and is more entertaining for me to write about geckos, earthquakes and picnics than it is to describe work. But here goes.
I am in the Solomons as part of the Fellowship Scheme organised by the Overseas Development Institute (ODI), a British research think-tank. Have to say that it is nice, after years of being ignored, to finally be officially recognised as the “fellow” that I clearly am. The scheme is mainly funded by DfID, though I’ve been told my particular placement is funded by the Australian equivalent (AusAid), but it is ODI that coordinates with governments in the various countries and undertakes the selection of candidates and organisation of placements. Each year about 35 post-graduates get postings in Commonwealth countries in Africa, the Pacific (and Guyana), and all, like me, are on a 2-year placement (by the way, anyone interested in applying – Caroline? - should note that the deadline is approaching).
My particular posting is in the Central Bank of Solomon Islands (CBSI), see photo above. A Central Bank, for those not totally clear, is no Barclays or Natwest, but is the government agency responsible for monetary policy in the country. Here in the Solomons where political instability, corruption and conflict have been rife in recent years, CBSI has played a crucial role in maintaining monetary stability and helping to hold the economy together, and has a justified reputation for being a rock of independent rationality and uncorruptability in a sea of murky politics. My own job within the Bank, I found when I arrived, is as the Senior (and at present only) Analyst for research in the Economics Department. Providing analysis and policy advice to the government is a key function of the Central Bank but, lacking any such department before I arrived, research at present is very limited and ad hoc. Many of the projects I undertake will be in response to the regular requests by heads of departments and the Board of Directors on a wide range of monetary and macroeconomic issues. Others I will be able to choose myself, offering scope to delve into the issues of most interest to me. One of the big challenges is going to be the hugely limited quality of data and information available, so helping to improve the information available for the Bank will be another key task.
At present it is way too early to predict the contribution I might make, and equally to gauge the quality of the experience that the job will give me. But things look promising. In contrast to my job at ACTED, which started off fascinating and got steadily less interesting once I had got all I could from the experience, I sense that this position will provide an increasingly complex and rewarding challenge as time passes. One great aspect is that in an economy the size of the Solomons’ you have a unique ability to see its workings in great detail. Every sector and almost each transaction can be observed in minute detail, like looking down from above on a model village. And this feature, I feel, means the job will provide a great experience and insight.
More on work and the economy of the Solomons will come in time, insha’Allah, but for now I’m off to feed my geckos and head to the beach.
This Sunday, having turned down my exceedingly kind and well-meaning neighbour Hilda on all four previous Sundays in November, I buckled under my own callousness and curiosity and by 10am arrived at church. Not just any church, mind. This was the Pentecostal Potter’s House church, a million miles from the quiet restraint of the traditional Church of England, and from my own vague memories of Sunday school spent drinking squash and eating biscuits while absent-mindedly colouring in pictures of Jesus being nailed to a cross. Though one of the more recent denominations to arrive in the Solomons, imported from the U.S south, it is apparently increasing rapidly in popularity. And from the laughs and raised eyebrows of those people to whom I mentioned I was going, I gathered it is pretty full-on. I pictured myself walking into a lion’s den of fire and brimstone, everyone keen to convert the poor lost waetman. In at the deep end, I thought; my first adult experience of church akin to a first time drug-user opting for a hard hit of crack.
Of course, it wasn’t as extreme as all that, but was in parts genuinely uplifting, in parts interesting and in others simply very funny to my unaccustomed eyes. As I hurried into the full church thinking I was late, I in fact joined the last 10 minutes of the pre-service bible session, and the first words from the pastor that I caught were along the lines of “evolution is the worst case of non-science to be found, it just doesn’t make sense”. Hmm, I thought. Once the service itself began and the pikininis dressed in their best were packed off to a back room for Sunday school, things got more lively. Standing up, we launched into a swift and rousing rendition of various Christian pop-songs, starting with “Celebrate, Jesus Christ, Celebrate”, followed in quick succession by “Lord, We Come in Faith”, “We Sing Praises to Your Name, Oh Lord” and various others whose names escape me. All this was accompanied by an 8 person band on the stage at the front, including Max, my fish-hunting instructor from last week, on a full drum kit. I happily joined in the clapping, and even indulged in a bit of body-swaying, but couldn’t quite bring myself to sing along.
Next came a sermon from a visiting pastor (Australian, like the regular pastor) on the theme of “things that crush our spirit”, which was for the most part interesting and nicely expressed. I was taught that adultery, deaths in the family, drug use, and borrowing money from my wantak will all crush my spirit (hear that last one Dad, you’re crushing my spirit, man!), though I didn’t quite catch the connection between recognising these things, and giving myself over to the lamb of God.
The next part was the bit I was anticipating slightly nervously; a lengthy prayer session with our eyes closed. First, any among us who knew we were sinners were invited up to the front to receive a special prayer. Hmm, I thought again; a sinner in my eyes or theirs? Actually, probably both, but I kept my bum firmly on my seat and instead sneakily opened one eye to gauge the number of sinners lurking among us. Just three, I was relieved to note, though perhaps the sinners had a special sinning penchant for lying. Soon after came the call to the front for everyone who willingly opened their heart to Jesus Christ, this time accompanied by much greater shuffling of feet. Uh oh, no place to hide for the lone waetman now. This time, when I again did a quick scan around me, I found that the front of the tiny church was a sea of prostrate bodies, the pews entirely empty, except, I was surprised to note, the seats just around me! Strange.
But not as strange as the next little trick; the miracle of healing in front of my very own eyes. Not something you see every Sunday morning. I had a bit of a hangover so I did consider stepping up myself, but was soon glad I hadn’t. The first to seek assistance was an oldish fellah, who said he’d had a bad back for a few weeks and mumbled something about an accident. Undeterred by the obvious pain the poor fellah was in and the risk of making things worse, the pastor fearlessly grabbed him by the head, gave him a brisk shake, then cried out “Out, you evil spirit of infirmity, out” and other impressively dramatic words. When asked if the pain was gone, the man bravely mumbled “no” to his feet, only for the same routine to be repeated (as someone with back problems in the past I shuddered at the sight, and particularly at the windmills and back-bending he was made to do afterwards). This time when asked if the pain had gone, with a whole church waiting expectantly, the guy cracked under the pressure and managed a small nod. But I caught a glimpse of his face as he returned to his seat rubbing his evidently still sore back, and I could see written all over his face that the only person less convinced than me that the pain had gone was the lucky recipient of the miracle himself.
The service ended, two hours after starting, with another song from The Band, and after having my hand shaked by all those around me, we shuffled out into the dazzle of the midday sun. I chatted briefly with the two white pastors, then headed off for some dim sum.
But wait! This Potter House tale may yet have another twist. In the course of my conversation with the touring pastor I discovered that he had recently visited their only church in London, which just so happens to be in good old Archway. North Londoners among you take heed: next time you wake up on a Sunday feeling the effects of the night before, forget the small (but wondrous) miracle of a hair-of-the-dog in The Mother Red Cap and instead get yourself down to church for spiritual healing on a far grander scale.
Saturday was the Economics Department picnic. At first glance, not an occasion to inspire excitement and anticipation, but in actual fact, a typically hilarious and entertaining Solomon Island staple. I’d already attended the Trade department picnic a few weeks back courtesy of Julia, a member of my ODI wantak, and on that day I’d eventually arrived back at home drunk on red wine and mind scrambled by kava (the local mildly hallucinogenic root drink most popular in Vanuatu). This day was no different. A big open back truck was acquired, negotiations on food quantities were finalised after discussions all week, families were assembled at a typically early hour of the morning (including the full quota of tiny pikininis) and with everyone in the back of the truck we headed down the coast to the beach. On arrival, there was no pissing about sitting enjoying the view or swimming in the irresistible waters (apart from the free-riding foreigner who simply couldn’t resist), but it was all action stations from the word go. The fish were descaled and gutted, the fire was lit, chicken, sausages, beef and fish were cooked on tables over the fire (see photo) and meanwhile the women whipped up temporary woven dishes from palm leaves. Needless to stay, all this was accompanied by consumption of Solbrew, wine and Fiji rum (56% proof no less).
The rest of the day flowed from the feast that followed, with drinking and storim till the late afternoon. After a suitable number of drinks, I also tried my hand at fish hunting for the first time. This, however, was not quite the image I had in mind. Instead of a high-tech state-of-the-art shining harpoon gun, the locals go armed with a rusty metre-long sharpened metal rod, and a thick piece of elastic. After watching my next-door neighbour Max successfully shoot small reef fish from amazing distances, I spent about an hour myself having a go. I was a natural, it has to be said. I rapidly went from being “not even bloody close” to “not even close”, but was so fun that I’m inspired to forego technology-assisted fish shooting, and work on this more humble practice. Perhaps night-time hunting is the way, as I am told that fish sleep at night and shooting then is a walk in the park, not dissimilar to pushing cows over when they’re sleeping standing up. More updates on my attempts to find and shoot Nemo at a later date.
By the time the rain came down, as it’s started doing with worrying frequency now that the rainy season has arrived, everyone was too merry to care, while others had simply fallen asleep (including wee Melissa, see photo). Later still, drunk and happily jabbering away, everyone clambered back into the trucks to be delivered back to their various houses. My own arrival was somewhat less smooth, as within 
seconds of getting into my house I’d somehow managed to lock myself out (I place the blame firmly on the temporal infestation of fleas) and had to spend the next 2 hours on a classic wild goose chase, driving round Honiara trying to find the mystery man with a spare key. But that’s another stori.
For those of you not entirely sure where the Solomons are, and who keep intending to get out their atlas but never get round to it, I have here a map for your convenience, courtesy of an Italian tai-chi instructor. That is all.
They say that first impressions are the strongest. When it comes to societies, rather than individuals, this seems to me particularly true, for only in the first week or two of being in a place do shared characteristics and national traits really thrust themselves upon you. Before long, as you get to know more and more people properly, these commonalities quickly begin to unravel and the complex mix of individuals and groups that make up society comes to dominate. Already now, those first impressions of people here that were buzzing round my mind so strongly in the first couple of weeks have begun to melt away. Nonetheless:
First and foremost, any visitor to the Solomons cannot but be struck by their reserved sweet natured-ness and infallible good humour. Wherever you are, whether in some dirty shack selling cheap “likker” or in the offices of the Central Bank, there are invariably a couple of people within earshot enthusiastically laughing away. Do types of laughs vary between nationalities? It appears so, for in the Solomons there is a distinctive high-pitched giggle that you hear everywhere, which in moments of real hilarity (i.e. the smallest amusement) heightens to a shriek of absolute glee. Extremely contagious, though also sometimes alarming as opening the mouth to laugh reveals the “betal nut” chewers razor sharp dagger-like teeth, with the blood-red juice dripping from them.
The next thing you notice is how incredibly shy people are here. This is seriously disconcerting at first. You approach the counter of a shop, try to catch the salesperson’s eye to ask for something, and their reaction is to give a sweet slightly-nervous giggle, and to stare at their feet. Even in work, asking someone about some issue or another, I found at first the answer was often addressed to their feet or at the wall in the opposite direction to where I was. Soon though, you get used to it, and feeling like an over-dominant Western brute for such an aggressive act as looking them in the eye you end up yourself looking at your feet when speaking to someone you don’t know. There is something very natural and bird-like about this interaction, a dance in which eyes are raised occasionally, are less occasionally met, and momentary half-smiles flash across lips. Still, it is a relief that many people involved in business or politics do not have this way about them, and that when you get to know the shy ones, eye-contact becomes normal.
There is a funny contradiction between this gentle nature, and the appearance of many of the younger men here. When I first walked the bustling street (singular) of Honiara, head still somewhere over the Bay of Bengal, I thought I had stumbled straight into a gang ghetto. The men look tough as shit, their feet flattened wide and toes spread-eagled from walking barefoot, clothes dirty and torn, many are massive fellas and covered in home-made skin-carvings or tattoos. But…then you notice them walking along holding hands, giggling together like schoolgirls, and eager to exchange a friendly smile with the white zombie. I have not once witnessed a single aggressive act in the four weeks I’ve been here, let alone a violent act. (Actually, I lie: one exception was an outraged 8 year-old whose older brother made the mistake of seriously pissing him off – here another remarkable feature of Solomonanders became clear which is their ability to throw stones very hard and with remarkable accuracy from a very young age: during the riots in April apparently you would often see the Aussie peace-keeping soldiers with big black eyes after getting clomped by a just such a missile). In light of this, I find it startling that as a people they could be capable of such brutal and meaningless blood-shed as occurred during “the tensions” (which started in 2000, more on this at a later date). The sad explanation, as always, is they were the actions of a relatively small minority.
Other characteristics? They are extremely diverse in their appearance, with clear differences depending on the island from which they happen to originate. Their eyesight is so good it makes me feel I need glasses. They are as a rule very devout Christians, though the tiny population includes more denominations than I am able to keep count of. Perhaps related to the previous, they sing beautifully. Those that can swim, swim like fish. Remarkably, many others (at least in Honiara) cannot. People go to bed early and wake up at dawn (something to which I aspire, but am yet to master). On that note, “me go slip nao”.
Ever since last Sunday, when I got my first taste of the island world beyond Guadalcanal and Honiara, I have been itching to write about the day’s ventures. Unfortunately, two stumbling blocks appeared which waylaid me somewhat. First, at the beginning of the week I was absorbed in the painting of my house, for the third time in as many years and in as many continents, and a chore of which I am now totally sick. Secondly, and even more all-absorbingly, in the middle of the week I was abruptly struck down by a bout of malaria, thus joining an exclusive club whose members include Ellie, Maro, the entire population of the Solomons and a few hundred million Africans.
I am now fine, I hasten to add. When diagnosed correctly and early, both of which are fairly routine in most developing countries, treatment for malaria is effective in 99.9% of cases (though don’t quote this in any medical journals, any doctors out there). Within 24 hours of the first symptom I was driven by Luke to a local clinic, had a tiny drop of blood taken from my fingertip for testing, and 15 minutes and a quick jab in the bum later and I was leaving again, a plastic bag of pills stuffed in my pocket. Now, just two days later, the worst symptoms have subsided, helped no doubt by the platefuls of fish and bags of fruit delivered to my door by friends and neighbours. Of course, this is not to say that malaria is not a horrible disease, and very dangerous if untreated. I don’t think I have ever felt as terrible as I did in the grip of malaria’s evening visitations. A roaring fever, alternating with arctic chills, and an indescribable headache sending shockwaves tearing through each brain cell on the slightest movement. But the point is that it is eminently treatable.
And yet… and yet… the last time I looked malaria was the disease responsible for the most global deaths each year (though quite possibly AIDS has now achieved this dubious honour). And that is the true tragedy of malaria. Is there any more potent symbol of the extent to which money rules this world, and the injustice this creates? The drugs exist, diagnosis is simple, and yet millions die. I remember when in Malawi meeting a young British medical student on a few months secondment, who told me how all patients diagnosed with malaria, even children, could only be given paracetamol and then sent on their way. Not the most fulfilling experience of being a doctor I imagine, but a pretty accurate insight into how the health system works in many developing countries. Though logistically and financially, production and distribution of sufficient drugs to save huge numbers of lives would be relatively simple, the sea-change required by profit-oriented drugs companies, or alternatively the political will to enforce such an action, means the current injustice is likely to remain for many years to come.
But to end on a less bleak note, the archipelago of Nggela visited on Sunday had me chuckling to myself in disbelief. They are one of the only islands, along with the volcanic Savo, that are visible from Honiara, and are just a one hour (50 horsepower) skit across Iron Bottom Sound, so named because of the number of World War II planes and ships sunk in its waters. But 
they are altogether a world apart. The provincial capital Tulagi is smaller than the tiniest British village, with an atmosphere so peaceful and sleepy you could imagine living a lifetime there and it would feel like a week. Spent the day scooting round the various tiny islands with a friend and colleague Donald (whose boat it was) and a couple of his cousins including young Henry (pictured top - everyone here has 
good old-fashioned British names). I could try to eulogise at length on the jaw-dropping and tantalising crystal clear waters, the white sandy beaches backed by thick green jungle, and the reefs and underwater canyons to explore. But I won’t. Neither words nor photos do it justice. And the locals say that this is nothing, that for natural beauty in the Solomons, “the West is the Best”. Crimbo on the beach p’raps.
Just like the best of you, I’ve lived in some messy slums in my time. In flats where bathrooms are cleaned just a couple of times a year, and ovens given a quick once-over only when bags are packed and a deposit at stake. But suddenly now, on the other side of the world, I have discovered the secret to keeping things spick and span with seemingly no effort, and which I will now share with you so your own shacks can radiate like mine. Apart from the obvious measure of living alone (thereby removing all the multitude of communal cleaning grey areas) the following is essential:
1) Get ants: The incentive to wash dishes and wipe surfaces is raised ten-fold when you know that a single dirty plate left a couple of hours will increase the population of your room one thousand-fold. The ants here are tiny, barely pinpricks and nothing like the giant-jawed pincing ants of south America. But they act fast and they act en masse, as I found to my peril when I awoke on the first morning and discovered my kitchen sideboard a heaving mass of the little bastards. A stitch in time saves nine thousand ant lives.
2) Get a gecko: Mistakenly (or unavoidably) leave a door open here for a few seconds and again, you find yourself with a roomful of unwanted guests. Geckos are the solution to the problem of moths, mosquitoes and cockroaches (dead and alive), and are my new heroes. Like the Solomanders themselves they are shy as a coconut, but a couple of times a day I happily catch sight of one translucently flitting on by like a lizard ghost, and am left pondering how to get Mr and Mrs Gecko to make some Gecko pikinis.
3) Get a housegirl: Before you all gasp and call me a neo-colonialist, everyone here (from the poorest to the richest) has a housegirl to cook, clean, wash clothes and dig the cassava patch. As a rule this is simply one of the many unemployed wantak who have descended on the poor individual unlucky enough to have found work, and rather than just sit about at home they are expected to do a bit to help (unpaid obviously). Fair enough. With my wantak a couple of oceans away I am forced to borrow my neighbour’s auntie’s cousin’s friend two days a week, who I pay about 2 quid for a day’s work (double the going rate I might add). In exchange for this bounty Jenny gets to mop my floors and clean my clothes. By hand. In cold water. (I did consider taking responsibility myself for this last task but after no deliberation I reluctantly decided against it). I, on the other hand, get to return home on Mondays and Thursdays to a haus that shines like old man Gecko’s bald spot.
So there you have it. Who’d have thought eh? Ants, geckos and housegirls. The perfect combination.
Two weeks now gone and just one hundred and two to go. As my awareness of the complexities (and simplicities) of Solomon society grows each day, it is a relief to have the luxury of so much time. Rarely in my life have I felt such a lack of urgency, and with this mentality it is possible to observe with a bit of distance and a lot of fascination all the goings on in this condensed capital of 50,000 people. For the most part I have chosen to avoid the swathes of Aussies who subtly dominate so much of the political and economic world over here. They are not hard to find. Hit the beaches at the weekends, or the yacht club at pretty much any hour of day and you will stumble across thick clusters, sipping beer, taking the piss and enjoying life in the unique way that Aussies do. No doubt in a couple of months I’ll be as much a Brad or a Matt as any of ‘em, happy as Larry just to be chucking hunks of meat on a barbie. But not just at present.
For now the separation and isolation of most expats from the real world around us grates like a handful of nails on a blackboard. Particularly as they seem completely oblivious to the hostility towards them that is so evident in many of the local Islanders. Just as in the middle-east when people established I wasn’t American, a look of relief flashes across peoples faces here when I say I am from Britain. It is dawning on me that contrary to popular belief, Brits are actually strangely appreciated in many countries around the world, even (or perhaps particularly) in countries such as Jordan and the Solomons which Britain once controlled. More psycho-analysis of the British character abroad at a later date perhaps.
So anyway, these first two weeks I have been more than content to ease into island life up here in green Mbokona, the area in which my shack (as some kind soul branded it) is located. To naïve outsiders, “central bank staff residential quarters” conjures images of grey concrete and greyer inhabitants. Far from it. The community of perhaps 25 wooden homes is in fact a colourful and lively microcosm of the country’s nine provinces and hundreds of disparate and far-flung islands. Next door, for example, lives lovely Jennifer from the distant Western Province and her husband Lakoa from tiny Polynesian Tikopia which is about 1,000 miles to the east. Also in the household are four of their own kids, Lakoa’s sister with husband and various children and at least two guys my age who are apparently unrelated to anyone but nonetheless wantak (from “one talk”) and therefore firmly ensconced. Relative to households here, keeping track of the Laurier Road Ghani family seems like child’s play.
Though shy, everyone seems incredibly keen to welcome me to the area. On several occasions I have just rustled up some grub for dinner when one of various neighbours (or the little posse of kids they have sent) comes a-knocking on my porch with a plateful of steaming fish or crab, and almost before I have time to thank them they bashfully disappear into the night. As is so often the case, the kids in particular have taken the lead in befriending the white man, hanging about outside my house, climbing my guava tree then running off screaming and giggling when I actually talk to them. My afternoons after I finish work are blissfully low-key and peaceful affairs. I have taken to joining the guys and gals who play volleyball each afternoon after work, learning fast that sweating doesn’t stop mosquitoes and that my feet are made of some other substance to those of the locals, who bound around on grainy concrete like it’s grass. But the games are entirely uncompetitive, all are welcome, and winning shots and foreigner bloopers are greeted alike with great hoots of good natured laughter. In the evenings, after an eye-opening blast in my waterfall of a cold shower, I sip a gin and tonic, cook a bit of food and answer the sporadic visits as the boldest of my neighbours pass by for a chat. Already I find myself revelling in the peace and leisurely pace of life for which the Pacific Islands are renowned, and which is such a contrast to the intensity of Honiara below. As the island vibe takes an ever-stronger hold, these tales, I suspect, will shorten in length just as my hair grows gradually longer. In the meantime the determined among you will just have to wade through these lengthy ramblings.
For those of you imagining my life here in Honiara as that of a hermit on a remote picturesque island, with white coral sands and quiet beach bungalows, think again. Then think again, again. Practically from the very moment I arrived I was being told what a shithole Honiara is, by expats and locals alike. That it is dusty and dirty, busy and noisy; simply unpleasant in every way. Solomon Islanders (Solomanders) in particular, almost all of whom were born several hundred ocean miles away, couldn’t wait, it seemed, to apologise to me on Honiara’s behalf. Poor Honiara. It didn’t ask for its status as the capital of the Solomons, or for the ethnic tensions and social discontent that is still very palpable on the streets. But though not as horrible as people make out (in fact I think a certain charm emanates from its complete lack of pretensions), it is indeed far from the postcard-perfect paradise one associates with the South Pacific. Fortunately, however, Honiara is also tiny. Head in any direction and you are just minutes from thick jungle, beautiful hills or pristine palm-lined coastline. With this in mind, on Sunday morning I jumped in the car that the Central Bank have lent me for the first few weeks, and headed back West from whence I came.
First up, diving into beautiful clear waters and exploring the coral-caked wreck of a Japanese battleship, manned now only by Japanese navy ghosts and colourful fish. A quick roadside breakfast of rice, barbequed fish and fried plantain (pictured) washed down with coconut water, and I was away again. Driving for a couple of hours on the atrocious roads takes you little more than 40km or so from Honiara, but you feel like you are much further. Tiny villages as traditional as an English Roast appear through gaps in the undergrowth, the younger kids and old folk looking equally astonished as you bump on by, and all others without fail offering a flash of a smile and a wave. Gave three rides in all: a toothless gent who cackled and jabbered in broken English before wandering off up a non-existent path through the jungle to who-knows-where; two earnest fellahs working for a Christian community radio station; and three teachers. Ended up spending the day 
with these latter in Visale (pictured), the village to which they were heading, with an amazing backdrop of furry green hills, a bay to drool over, and the company of local families barbequing…more fish. As the heavens opened in spectacular style on my way back I was tempted for at least half a minute to buy a car here in order that such ventures might continue. But cars are expensive, the local trucks look like a right laff, and anyway, as everyone keeps telling me, I really must go and see the provinces. Boats it is then.
Wrote a few words from the comfort of my new sofa last night, listening to the birds flapping about in my rafters and the dogs scuffling about on the porch. Forgot, however, to bring it to work this morn, so tales of fish (live and eaten) will have to wait till the morrow. In the meantime here are a couple of photos of my explorations west. And also, if you're interested in reading more tales of English folk (and one French fellah) gallavanting the world, then check out the following sites:
www.generocity.blogspot.com - Maro and Simon's insights into democracy, health and life in Sierra Leone
www.englishmaninpapuanewguinea.blogspot.com - A pals stories of life in the Central Bank of the country that just neighbours (and sometimes fights) with mine
http://ouestbastien.over-blog.org/ - French speakers only: my ACTED colleague's tales of Arabia
Two extremely blurry days after landing on island soil, I am taken (with slight trepidation) to see the house I’ll be staying in for my time here. Getting there involves a 20 minute rodeo ride up a track winding up the hillside immediately above Honiara. Within minutes of leaving the dusty bustle of the town I am suddenly transported into the reality of tropical island life. Greenery exploding on all sides, an abundance of fruit trees, and rickety wooden huts with traditional thatched roofs scattered around, nestled comfortably in their environment resting on wobbly stilts.
At the top of the “rocky road” (as Luke - deputy head of the economics department - dubbed it), are the CBSI staff residential quarters and mi casa (see photo), which exceeds all my expectations. It is a three-room wooden bungalow just like all the others in the area, but unlike everyone else my wantak are about 10,000 miles away so I have it all to myself and have masses of space. There is also a wooden porch and large garden complete with fruit trees which Vincent (head of the economics department) points out as mine. These include: 5 banana trees, a couple of papaya trees (which are massive so to get the fruit I’ll either have to shin up myself - not appealing at all -, hire a local pikinini or import a foreign technical specialist – Spence?), 2 guava trees, 1 mango tree, 2 trees whose fruit I couldn’t identify and various pineapple plants. I find myself gazing at them all each morning, wondering when the hell those fruit will ripen.
But best of all is to be part of such a lovely community. Everyone is absolutely heart-warmingly sweet-natured, and each household overflowing with pikininis who roam and play in big bunches with seemingly no restrictions on property. Returned from work yesterday to find 5 wee lads playing practically under my porch, and it seems a tiny wee pup from next door sleeps on my porch each night as when I open the curtains each morning it jumps up startled and wobbles off. The ultimate “mi casa es tu casa” society, which suits me just fine.
I was met at the airport by a veritable troop of CBSI staff. My first taste of Solomanders (a great name for them, a friend suggested). A totally charming bunch, reflective of the population from what little I’ve seen. Quick to laugh and even quicker to grin. However, I am subtly, but utterly, exhausted and disoriented. I’ll be staying in a hotel (King Solomon) for a couple of days while the curtains in my house are put up. In the meantime, first impressions of the land that'll be my home for 2 years will have to wait.
The scale of this journey beats anything I have previously experienced. With each new stage of the journey and each new time zone I was struck by the magnificent size of this round ball we call our planet, and felt a surprising growing excitement at heading to a new corner. Having said that, I slept almost the entire journey, only waking fully for the airport stopovers, my dosing intermingling with dreams of shark gods and strange visions of conflict-filled islands lying ahead.
Flight 0010; 5am UK time; I awake to find a peacefully sleeping plane flying over wee peaceful Kabul, 5,000 miles to Singapore
Flight 0010; 8am UK time; Awake again over the Bay of Bengal, 2,000 miles to Singapore
Singapore airport: My first hint of the east, having never previously travelled East of Jordan. All kinds of cheap eateries, so wandered through sampling sushi, chocolate soya drinks and watching young Yankee men head to McDs with a determination that made me shiver. Was torn for a moment between the free massage chairs and the rooftop pool, but the latter won and was a treat to swim and Jacuzzi for an hour or so in the muggy heat, shaking out the deep vein thrombosis from my tired legs, with jets taking off over-head.
Flight 0052; god-knows what time in UK; Awake flying over Alice Springs, sun rising over the mighty flat pancake of hazy earth and heat that is Australia, 2,500 miles from Singapore and still 1,500 miles till Brisbane.
Brisbane airport: Slightly alarmed at Brisbane airport when they refused to let me on the flight as I didn’t have an onward ticket. Buying a ticket all the way back to London from Honiara was the only option (cheap at less than 3,000 quids I thought), though there’ll be a nervous wait till I get my refund.
Landed in Honiara 2pm local time, 36 hours after leaving and 11 time zones East.
As I knew it would all along, two weeks in London feels now like a surreal dream, except exceptionally hectic and exceptionally necessary. Two weeks of hellos and hugs, coffees and goodbyes laced with cider and whisky. Two weeks in which I was so preoccupied with what and who I was leaving, that thoughts of distant islands, vast oceans and life as a research economist (?!) were impossible. Only when my bags were packed did the reality of leaving actually strike me, and sitting waiting for take-off at Heathrow airport, clasping the 2004 annual report of my future employers (Central Bank of Solomon Islands or CBSI), I couldn’t help but feel somewhat under-prepared for the magnitude of this venture. Then again, just such a lack of expectation is often the best way to arrive in a completely new world…
As the name may suggest to those Spanish speakers among you, it is hot in the Solomons. Blazingly, wiltingly, drenchingly hot. Not as humidly suffocating as the Paraguayan summer, the sun not as piercingly bright and relentless as in Jordan, but nonetheless a heat as intense as any I can remember experiencing. At midday, whether on the beach, out in the dusty streets, or most of all when aboard a little boat out in the endless expanse of dazzling sea, the light of the huge Pacific sky above seems to take malicious pleasure in directing its rays at you from all angles.
Of course, it wasn’t as extreme as all that, but was in parts genuinely uplifting, in parts interesting and in others simply very funny to my unaccustomed eyes. As I hurried into the full church thinking I was late, I in fact joined the last 10 minutes of the pre-service bible session, and the first words from the pastor that I caught were along the lines of “evolution is the worst case of non-science to be found, it just doesn’t make sense”. Hmm, I thought. Once the service itself began and the pikininis dressed in their best were packed off to a back room for Sunday school, things got more lively. Standing up, we launched into a swift and rousing rendition of various Christian pop-songs, starting with “Celebrate, Jesus Christ, Celebrate”, followed in quick succession by “Lord, We Come in Faith”, “We Sing Praises to Your Name, Oh Lord” and various others whose names escape me. All this was accompanied by an 8 person band on the stage at the front, including Max, my fish-hunting instructor from last week, on a full drum kit. I happily joined in the clapping, and even indulged in a bit of body-swaying, but couldn’t quite bring myself to sing along.
Ever since last Sunday, when I got my first taste of the island world beyond Guadalcanal and Honiara, I have been itching to write about the day’s ventures. Unfortunately, two stumbling blocks appeared which waylaid me somewhat. First, at the beginning of the week I was absorbed in the painting of my house, for the third time in as many years and in as many continents, and a chore of which I am now totally sick. Secondly, and even more all-absorbingly, in the middle of the week I was abruptly struck down by a bout of malaria, thus joining an exclusive club whose members include Ellie, Maro, the entire population of the Solomons and a few hundred million Africans.
