It’s the economy, stupid… (The Solomon Island Economy Part I)

In my first couple of months here, as I gradually learnt more and more about the Solomon Island economy, my overwhelming feeling was one of increasing pessimism about the country’s prospects. And that was from a starting point that I like to think of as ‘realistic’ (i.e. I’ve been to a few developing countries and have seen all too well the difficulties of achieving growth, development and poverty reduction). More recently, however, this negative outlook regarding the country’s future has softened somewhat. Why is this, I wonder to myself? There are a couple of concrete reasons for some optimism, but in the main I think it comes down to something more subjective and less rational. Being surrounded by such lovely people, and with consciousness of the fragile peace we inhabit highly evident in conversations and newspaper headlines everyday, the consequences of economic stagnation or deterioration do not bear thinking about. And so I suspect it is simply hope that gives me cause for optimism. Anyway, I’ll give you an overview of economic activities here. It shouldn’t take long!

Apart from subsistence production that feeds 80% of the population, production here is basically limited to five primary commodity exports: fish, cocoa, copra, palm oil and logs. (Gold mining is also expected to commence in 2008). The ‘fishing sector’ comprises a grand total of two fishing companies. One of these catches around 70% of the total catch, most of which it freezes and exports to Asia. The other is a loss-making State-Owned-Enterprise which processes tuna for export in cans, including, once-upon-a-time, to good old Sainsbury’s. The fishing industry is still relatively tiny however, and most of the big boats you see in Solomon waters are foreign vessels that freeze their catch on board and head off back to Asia without even coming ashore.

Cocoa and copra are the only real source of income for the rural population, but production levels are still relatively tiny. The British gobblers of Cadbury’s know only too well the significance of cocoa, but copra is probably somewhat more of a mystery. Copra is made by scraping and then drying the flesh of old (fallen) coconuts, and is a laborious process for which producers receive a pittance (as a rule the further you are from Honiara, the less you receive from your labour). One short piece of research I’m going to try to do soon is looking at the relationship between international prices for copra (and cocoa) and the export and domestic price received by exporters and ‘farmers’. Since copra production in particular is very much a supplementary source of income rather than being necessary for survival, it will also be interesting to examine how production levels respond to changes in the domestic price. Copra is largely exported as a raw product, but is also used to make coconut oil for use in cosmetics. An increasing amount of coconut oil is being produced in Honiara however, which is a particularly interesting development since it can be mixed with a small amount of diesel to make a bio-fuel that can be used in standard generators. A third of all imports here are for fuel, and reducing this dependency would help to reduce our trade deficit, which in the last couple of years has been growing and growing.

I have left the two biggies till last. These two are the antithesis of each other; the classic good guy, bad guy. Palm Oil is the 2006 poster-child of the Solomons, as this year production finally resumed after a halt of around 8 years due to the ‘tensions’. Only one company is operating so far, but two other plantations are under negotiation. Once the (considerable) challenge of establishing agreeable royalties to landowners has been undertaken, palm oil is fairly straightforward to produce, and seemingly has a lot of potential. It is labour-intensive so generates large numbers of jobs (around 2,500 already even though the current operator GPPOL hasn’t reached anywhere close to full capacity), but also offers scope for landowners to operate their own small plantations supplying the raw product (palm nuts) to the mill operator. Unlike logging there are no unpleasant side-effects, in fact GPPOL generates all the power it requires by burning the palm husks, and is even about to start exporting surplus electricity to Gold Ridge Mining Company. International demand is strong, prices are high and rising and people are even beginning to whisper that palm oil might be a replacement for the logging sector.

They will have to be very quick though. ‘Unsustainable’ is not a strong enough word to describe what is happening to the country’s forests. In the lush abundance of the land around Honiara, and in fact much of the coastal areas in the Solomons, it easy to be blissfully unaware of what is happening. But the statistics say it all. A recent survey estimated that the stock of harvestable forest will be exhausted by 2010 if production (though of course it should really be called destruction) continues at 1 million cubic metres per year. In 2006 production was over 1.1 million cubic metres, and this year we have forecast it will increase by another 12%. The logging crash is going to hit soon, and it’s going to hit hard - in particular, government revenue will take a severe smack in the nose. More worrying for us at the Central Bank, logging is the source of 70% of all export earnings and a sudden halt in logging in a couple of years will leave a gaping whole in the trade balance, and us scrambling to maintain the foreign reserves. I could spit bile about the logging industry for several trees-worth of pages, and perhaps I will at a later date. But to end on a more positive note, in a few isolated and small-scale places forestry plantations, managed by villages, offer a potential sustainable future for logging in the country.

And that, pretty much is that. Manufacturing (apart from tuna, booze and fags) is pretty much non-existent. With the huge numbers of cheap Chinese goods flooding the market along with food products from Fiji and Papua New Guinea, developing a manufacturing industry (let alone one capable of export) will be a tough task. Tourism is also miniscule; in fact the prospective arrival of les Barones is expected to double the monthly visitor figures. The country is too far from Europe, there are not enough fancy hotels and golf courses for the Americans and Japanese, and the Aussies and Kiwis are scared off by Embassy Travel Advice which places the country on the same level of alert as Iran. The recent Tsunami, though with little immediate consequences for the economy, will do little to help us attract greater numbers in future. On top of all this is the knowledge that the vast volumes (in per capita terms at least) of assistance pouring into the country as a result of the RAMSI presence will not be infinite.

It is anyone’s guess as to where the country and economy will be in 50 years - predicting the situation even five years from now is impossible. But as I get increasingly absorbed in the work, and learn more and more about the economy, I feel myself becoming entwined with the country’s fate. In a year and a half there’ll be just as many questions about the future as we ponder now, but hopefully in that time we’ll see a fair few answers unfold too.

An old tub...

(Obligatory apology: I know I haven’t written anything for a long while. Sorry! I’ll try to write a bit more frequently over the next two weeks as compensation)

It seemed like a good idea at the time. A Sunday cruise to the notoriously beautiful island of Anooha; organised by the Girl Guides to raise money for an overseas trip. Even the 6am departure time seemed a positive - seemingly offering more time to relax on the white sands and snorkel the crystal waters. But oh, what fools we were to trust those devious Girl Guides. By 9am on the day in question it had already become clear that we were sorely mistaken, and we were in this thing for the brutal long-haul.

Boat travel in the Solomons is notoriously unpleasant. Of all the boats that ply their trade in the country’s waters, there are two whose names include the word Express. The rest lack this feature for good reason. And aside from the sheer excruciating length of time it takes to cover the huge distances between islands, you’ve also got to put up with high seas and vomiting passengers – the Solomon Islanders are at home in little dugout canoes that wobble like a novice tightrope-walker, but when it comes to the bigger boats they are just as susceptible to the dreaded sea-sickness as the rest of us land-lubbers.

Nevertheless, spirits were high as families, expats and young local guys (carrying crates of Sol Brew and eyeing up the Girl Guides) clambered aboard the rusting MV Temotu at first light. An hour later people were still chatting merrily, light-heartedly joking about the ‘Solomon-time’ departure. Another hour later and with still no sign we were any closer to leaving, the mood was decidedly less carefree, and the grumbling was getting louder. Eventually, just when I was beginning to worry the girl guides were on the verge of being lynched, the engine suddenly spluttered into life (if you can call it that), thick smoke pouring out of the funnel, the last few passengers ran down the jetty and leapt aboard, and the MV Temotu pulled away from Honiara.

Great I thought. Not for long. It was a cloudy morning and the seas were already choppy. Within 15 minutes the first victim had rushed to the side and kindly hurled her breakfast down to the fishes below, accompanied by cries of oouuaahhh from nearby passengers. She was soon joined by several others, and within an hour that familiar deathly sea-sick hush had enveloped the boat. It’s a great leveller is sea-sickness. Whether aboard the mighty QE2 or an old tub like the MV Temotu, once it strikes you are subject to exactly the same torment. And a lonesome plight it is too. You see couples standing clutching the guard rail for hours, side-by-side but a mile apart, each individually fighting their solitary and silent battle against their churning stomach. I would like to say that I was immune, having sailed the stormy Solent waters since I was in nappies – but not a bit of it. I stood chanting the old mantra of ‘look at the horizon’ and reminding myself that even Britain’s most famous seafarer Lord Nelson used to be struck down for the first 3-days of each voyage before finding his sea legs. Little consolation though when you’re trip is only a couple of hours each way…

Or at least that’s what we thought and were told. Last time I went to Ngela it took an hour by 40 h/p fibre-glass canoe. The MV Temotu was in no such hurry. As Honiara slowly, very slowly, receded behind us, it was immediately clear that this was going to take a while. And when we arrived at Anooha five hours later (yes, five hours!!) it was equally clear that we were going to have to leave again pretty shortly, especially as there was only one little metal boat (and one oar) that took an hour to ferry over 200 passengers to the beach. (Fortunately this was a pretty short distance, as the microphone announcement that we were about to ‘beach’ was literally accurate – the ship ploughing straight into the shore).

There followed a couple of pleasant sunny hours in the water, some barbecued fish and the treat of some traditional dancing and beautiful chanting/singing from the Central Province women. But before we knew it the little metal boat was going back and forth again (in fact I’m not even sure there was a break between the last disembark and the first re-embark). Well, me and Fi quite wisely decided to make our own return one of the last. And this would have been fine except that just as we were about to step off the shore we realized that the fleeing figure we had seen earlier charging into the bush as we changed behind some trees was in fact making off with my sunglasses and snorkelling gear. With everyone already on board, looking down at us from several decks above, there was clearly nothing that could be done at this stage but we mentioned it to the head organiser (Brown Owl or something is she called?) of the Girl Guides anyway, who happened to be standing next to us. She was clearly a woman of action, however, for straight away, with a whole boatload of her already fuming passengers waiting, she marched back along the beach to set things straight. An hour later, after extensive negotiations with the village elders, it transpired that the kid who had nabbed it had jumped on a boat to another island. Such things are a matter of honour for the islanders and another boat was despatched to chase it down. Meanwhile, with the sun sinking and heavy rainclouds brewing, the MV Temotu finally pootled away from the bay.

There is not much to say about the journey back, other than it took longer than the first and everyone was forced inside by rain lashing outside (except for one elderly Australian who sat in a plastic chair alone on the deck as a storm raged around him – reminding me of Ahab going down with old Moby Dick). An hour into the journey a speedboat came alongside and handed something aboard. This turned out to be my lost items, which were returned to me with great pride, and accompanied by scowls from nearby expats who were clearly not impressed we’d been delayed an extra hour by some guy’s bloody snorkel.

At 10.30 we arrived back in Honiara. We’d been on board the sick-inducing, fume-reeking boat for over 13 hours, in exchange for a quick 2 hour dip. A grand day out indeed.

Sunday 29th April, 2007…

At 9.32am I wake up, and take a few seconds to work out where I am and which country I’m in. This is rare these days (the spatial confusion that is, not the waking up). When I first arrived it happened all the time, and at length. Sometimes for what seemed like 10 minutes I would look around me racking my brain trying to gain familiarity from a particular wall or curtain pattern, hoping then to extend that one concrete reality to my life and place in general. But these days such confusion usually only happens when I’ve been out on the razz the night before. And as I wake this morning I have a firm recollection (practically the only recollection at all in fact, including how I found my way home) of the numbers 5.54 on my bedside alarm clock as I stumbled in to bed the ‘night’ before. Luckily, my drunken autopilot slipped a little homeopathic remedy called ‘Nux Vomica’ into my mouth before passing out, and my hangover is manageable.(Take heed… this is truly a miracle hangover cure to beat even a Potter’s House church session).

Cold shower – my first of four in the day. Me and cold showers have a turbulent relationship. Even in the tropics, it can get tiresome summoning up the courage and bracing yourself for that first blast, particularly at 6.30 in the morning every single day. On the other hand, at times like this it absolute bliss.

For a couple of hours I sit on my porch writing a letter. It is scorchingly hot even in the shade, and I desperately will the faint wafts of breeze to flex a bit more muscle. Ice cold water from my rain tank helps though. Honiara tap water is reputedly pretty safe, but it tastes like shit whereas the rainwater that flows from my roof, into my gutter (hopefully not past too many dead geckos or birds) and into the tank behind my house tastes fresh as a mountain stream. I peel and eat a few guava too, crunching the seeds and admiring the beautiful pink flesh. The little Mbokona kids haven’t come calling recently with their tentative calls of "William, mi laek guava", and though I don’t begrudge them scampering up the tree – they always give me a few of the nicest fruits anyway – it’s great once in a while to climb the tree myself and get a proper heap to eat all day.

I have several visitors while I sit on the porch, though I must also have replied halo, moning and baebae fifty times – it being Sunday there is a steady procession of families (though very few sign of daddies) going to church, kitted out in their smartest clothes and armed with umbrellas (para el sol). Little Steven is one of the most entertaining, though only about 3 years old, and we regularly pass the time of day at weekends. I always hear his little voice calling “waetman, eh, waetman” before I see him, and then in a now familiar little routine I call back “halo Steven, halo Steven”, and then, in an an ongoing educational effort to wean him off addressing me directly as waetman, I ask him “who nao name blo mi?”. To which, he proudly replies, "William", before jabbering in either garbled pijin or more likely in one of the Malaitan languages that is his mother tongue – either way I can’t understand a word but give him a thumbs up, a “lukim iu Steven”, and he marches happily on his way.

With my belly full of brown rice and curry, I fall asleep, assisted by my trusty metallic-blue-finish Chinese fan. An hour later I wake sweltering and too hot to sleep, the fan suspiciously quiet beside me. “Shit”, I think “a power-cut”, and for the second time that day I give up trying to sleep anymore.

At the golf club I reluctantly turn down the eager caddies, holding up my tennis racket in apology. We fail to get in to the peaceful little court at the back however, undone by a third friend who failed to show (something to do with tequila shots at 4am I suspect) and who is the one member among us. But anyway, the court is being repaired and they don’t allow singlets (?!) which my Aussie mate (J), being an Aussie, is wearing. I wonder if they would allow vests. We play at the dilapidated old courts beside the Pacific casino instead, shown up by the old Chinese guy and fat local guy whipping the ball back and forth beside us. We don’t do too badly though: the ball only goes in the sea once, rescued by a little posse of kids armed with sticks and stones.

On J’s balcony we sip whisky and ginger and eat steak. His house is swish, with air-conditioning and big screen doors. He also has the biggest barbecue I’ve ever seen. This, he tells me, was written into his contract before coming here, which I find hilarious. It poured with rain while we were eating, and on the road home the toads are out in force. The world is divided into two kinds of people: those who drive to avoid the toads; and those who drive to squash them. There is no middle ground of ignoring them. J, who is giving me a lift home, is a squasher, as he’s from Northern Australia. Toads were introduced there by some wise soul to try to control a pest on the big sugar cane plantations, but with no natural predator (their back is covered in a noxious poisonous slime) they have run amok. They also proved utterly useless in controlling the sugar cane pest – too high up on the plant apparently. I’ve no idea why the toads were brought to the Solomons, but no doubt for an even stupider reason.

I sleep like a baby, until midnight when I receive a call from a certain ningnong in PNG (mi jok nomoa!!). Then back under the mosquito net till dawn.

(I have realised that I always seem to write about ‘something’, be it an aspect of Solomon life or a weekend away, so today I decided to take a different approach and write about ‘nothing’. Since it is hard to capture ‘nothing’ well on a camera, there are no photos I’m afraid. But please accept this photo of me and my mate ‘Meat’ as compensation).