Bush knife swinging Melody...

I have a gardener. Not a permanent arrangement I don’t think - just a couple of bush-knife swinging days – but decidedly necessary to help me get under control the jungle that is currently exploding in front of my house. That’s the thing with a tropical paradise: things grow at an alarming rate. I’m beginning to suspect that this partly explains the Solomon Islanders’ apparent obsession with tending their gardens. Every evening, every weekend, outside every house, home-owners and their wantak are to be seen weeding, clearing, pruning and endlessly trimming the grass down to a neat half inch, all to the rhythmic beat of the thwack-thwacking bush knife. The result is impressive, as the garden in front of even the poorest household is almost without exception neat and tidy, frangipani and other tropical flowers erupting everywhere, while pride of place is given to the bountiful orchids draped over home-made wooden trellis fences and growing from coconut husks nailed to trees. Now though, it’s recently dawned on me that what I thought was a bit obsessive is in fact just a healthy and wise application of the old adage… a stitch in time.

In contrast, I have been putting off tending my own little patch. I’ve got plenty of excuses, naturally, which I can explain in detail to anyone who seeks further justification. But the long and the short of it is that returning on New Year’s Day, crawling up the Mbokona road to my house in a snail-pace taxi, I was surprised to find No.5 Central Bank Quarter practically hidden from view. Have to say I felt a little ashamed. There, standing out like a sore thumb amongst all the neat gardens was the haos blo waetman, complete with shoulder high grass and bulging bushes threatening to engulf my little drive. I half expected to be greeted by Robinson Crusoe bursting from the undergrowth in a dodgy goatskin hat.













So that was the clincher - the time had come for action. I rolled up my sleeves and grabbed my bush knife, rudely awakening it from its leisurely life resting in the corner of my kitchen cracking open the odd coconut. Fearless of the hard labour that lay ahead I promptly… hired a very sweet lady in her sixties named Melody, who is now working hard clearing the effects of my procrastination. I should say at this point that I didn’t intend to hire a pensioner. My initial choice was a bulky dreadlocked fellah named Sally, but after hearing my terms he passed the contract on to his mami, the smiling and eager Melody. As a female friend pointed out, she’ll do a much better and more careful job, particularly, it seems to me, since our man Sally spends his days from early morn to dusk perched behind his little betal nut stall, and judging by his teeth and eyes is not above “getting high on his own supply”.

(The photos show the inside of my so-called shack, as requested by various people. For those of you thinking of heading this way, the room with my washing hanging in is yours in exchange for two hours gardening each morning).