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.
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.