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
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.
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.
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.
