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…
