Struck down...

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.