For the last few weeks things have been pretty busy at work. Busy, that is, for the Solomon Islands (since by 5.45pm each day everyone in CBSI has scarpered and security have locked up, scope for really busting a gut is limited). One of the main reasons for this burst of activity is that we in the Economics Department are currently undertaking end of year consultations with all the major companies, NGOs and government ministries in the country, a fascinating close-up perspective of what makes the wheels of the economy turn (albeit creakingly) and which I hope to describe a little more at another point. Another reason has been the government’s attempt to slip through new legislation raising the minimum wage by the small matter of 470%. This caused a predictable amount of consternation among local businesses (even the trade unions were concerned this might not be the best idea), who requested that the Central Bank submit a report on the likely impact of such a policy change, and for which I was responsible. Which finally brings me in a roundabout way to the first of the photos; informed by Labour Division that the Minimum Wage bill would be discussed on the opening day of Parliamentary sessions, I popped up and took a peep. There was no mention of the Minimum Wage of course, but was great to see the various larger-than-life political characters here in the flesh, and the building is quite pretty on the inside.
About the same week as I made my debut on the political scene here, I also pulled on a Bokolo Blues football shirt for the first time. Each year in April there is an inter-bank soccer competition in the Solomon Islands, and last year, to everyone’s surprise and after years of trying, the Central Bank team succeeded in snatching the trophy from under the noses of the larger commercial banks. In the months since then, however, the blue shirts have remained tucked away while their victorious owners have tucked into plentiful quantities of motu fis, pigpig and SolBrew, losing a bit of zip in the process (I am told). So we’re starting our training early this year, and the return to action was much anticipated. In the days leading up to our first game there was a blizzard of correspondence on the intranet: discussion of tactics, optimal playing positions, and much lewd cackling about the magical properties of Deep Heat, or even better, Coconut Oil. Transport to the game had me chuckling to myself too, as twenty Central Bank workers all in uniform crammed into the open back of our blue truck and whizzed down the road. Our opponents for the game - the mighty Telekom Hypers.
So what of the game itself? To roll out the oldest of football clichés: t’was a game of two halves, both for the team as a whole and for the red-faced Englishman. We raced to a 3-0 lead, only to get torn apart in the second half but still clung on to win 3-2. Two aspects of the game here will take some getting used to. First, the heat is unbelievable, even at five in the afternoon. After just a few minutes of the gentle warm-up jog I was (not the only one) wheezing away, struggling to gasp in enough of the muggy air. By the second half I was completely gone, but wondering if this might still be better than an icy January morning trudging out onto the half-frozen mud of Hackney Marshes, awaiting with trepidation the first smack of the football onto wet and cold thigh. At least I wasn’t the only waetman with a beacon for a face – a friend of mine here who’s from the East End works for Telekom and was sweating it out in their midfield. The second big difference is the rock hard ground, which makes the ball bounce and bobble around like crazy, and which made me look a wally on a number of occasions.
Did I mention that I was a striker? Well I was, for the first time in my playing career. And surprisingly, I seem to have cemented myself in that position. The reason, it became clear to me after five minutes, is that they see me as their new Peter Crouch (a lanky praying mantis with a magic touch and a toothy grin, for those not familiar with this English icon). I showed a willingness to actually head the ball a couple of times and that was it: as the goal keeper and defenders hoofed the ball in my vague direction I was being urgently urged to “flick it on”. Fortunately, and again just like our man Crouchie, I also revealed a hitherto undiscovered ability to score spectacular goals. Well, one to be precise, in the single game I’ve played so far, a looping volley from outside the area catching the goalie off his line. Clearly, my talent was wasted playing out of position in the tangerine of Acland Burghley, the white of Mullet Argyle and the green of Monj Too.
That’s all for this evening folks. If any of you are totally bored hearing about football, and would rather read about some other specific aspect of life here, whether it’s “how to eat a mango” or “why are the Solomon Islands so darn poor?” then email me and I’ll do my best to oblige. If anyone is dieing for further updates on Peter Crouch’s surprising move to the Solomon Islands, then let me know and I will be happy to give blow-by-blow accounts including injury status (currently sidelined with a slight lower back pain from an unfortunate water skiing incident).
About the same week as I made my debut on the political scene here, I also pulled on a Bokolo Blues football shirt for the first time. Each year in April there is an inter-bank soccer competition in the Solomon Islands, and last year, to everyone’s surprise and after years of trying, the Central Bank team succeeded in snatching the trophy from under the noses of the larger commercial banks. In the months since then, however, the blue shirts have remained tucked away while their victorious owners have tucked into plentiful quantities of motu fis, pigpig and SolBrew, losing a bit of zip in the process (I am told). So we’re starting our training early this year, and the return to action was much anticipated. In the days leading up to our first game there was a blizzard of correspondence on the intranet: discussion of tactics, optimal playing positions, and much lewd cackling about the magical properties of Deep Heat, or even better, Coconut Oil. Transport to the game had me chuckling to myself too, as twenty Central Bank workers all in uniform crammed into the open back of our blue truck and whizzed down the road. Our opponents for the game - the mighty Telekom Hypers.
So what of the game itself? To roll out the oldest of football clichés: t’was a game of two halves, both for the team as a whole and for the red-faced Englishman. We raced to a 3-0 lead, only to get torn apart in the second half but still clung on to win 3-2. Two aspects of the game here will take some getting used to. First, the heat is unbelievable, even at five in the afternoon. After just a few minutes of the gentle warm-up jog I was (not the only one) wheezing away, struggling to gasp in enough of the muggy air. By the second half I was completely gone, but wondering if this might still be better than an icy January morning trudging out onto the half-frozen mud of Hackney Marshes, awaiting with trepidation the first smack of the football onto wet and cold thigh. At least I wasn’t the only waetman with a beacon for a face – a friend of mine here who’s from the East End works for Telekom and was sweating it out in their midfield. The second big difference is the rock hard ground, which makes the ball bounce and bobble around like crazy, and which made me look a wally on a number of occasions.
Did I mention that I was a striker? Well I was, for the first time in my playing career. And surprisingly, I seem to have cemented myself in that position. The reason, it became clear to me after five minutes, is that they see me as their new Peter Crouch (a lanky praying mantis with a magic touch and a toothy grin, for those not familiar with this English icon). I showed a willingness to actually head the ball a couple of times and that was it: as the goal keeper and defenders hoofed the ball in my vague direction I was being urgently urged to “flick it on”. Fortunately, and again just like our man Crouchie, I also revealed a hitherto undiscovered ability to score spectacular goals. Well, one to be precise, in the single game I’ve played so far, a looping volley from outside the area catching the goalie off his line. Clearly, my talent was wasted playing out of position in the tangerine of Acland Burghley, the white of Mullet Argyle and the green of Monj Too.That’s all for this evening folks. If any of you are totally bored hearing about football, and would rather read about some other specific aspect of life here, whether it’s “how to eat a mango” or “why are the Solomon Islands so darn poor?” then email me and I’ll do my best to oblige. If anyone is dieing for further updates on Peter Crouch’s surprising move to the Solomon Islands, then let me know and I will be happy to give blow-by-blow accounts including injury status (currently sidelined with a slight lower back pain from an unfortunate water skiing incident).
1 comment:
Having been a notable absentee from the interactive part of your highly enjoyable blog, I thought it apt to enter as the words "He's got a good touch for big man" slip from my lips.
It sounds like island life is not necessarily as far away from life back home as one might think. Obviously one would expect a tropical island paradise to seek it's footballing influences from the likes of Brazil rather than Barnsley but with their big man up front, Bokolo Blues need 'play to their strengths'!
Sounds like life on the island is all going well. Emily has shown me the latest photographs which made for some funny (drunken) discussions over the weekend. No doubt the truth will eventually come out!
All the best,
Karl
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