Heading back west...

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.