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.