Ch ch ch ch Changes...

Man, things progress quickly in Honiara.

At the beginning of the week, I was stuck in my tiny, oppressive little hotel room, feeling a bit sorry for myself, feeling a little homesick and fragile.  By the end of the week, my life was sort of magically transformed.

It all started with a little pasta party at my friend Tessa’s house.  Tessa and I had sort of been playing with the idea of moving in together (sorry not in a sexy way), with Marco, our other Italian friend. 

The house Tessa lives in is amazing; the woodwork is spectacular and it is shaped like a chalet; an odd design for Honiara.  She greets me at the door and tells me the house next door is for rent and in our price range.  I take a look and immediately fall in love, with what has now been dubbed, “Casa Turchese”(Turquoise House). 

The name stuck because of the alarmingly bright blue paint on the outside of the house and also because of the amazing sea views from the balcony and two bedrooms.  The master suite, which is mine, has a huge bed, ensuite, and again, an ocean view with the islands and hills in the background.

Along for the site visit is two Australian blokes, who volunteer to come with me and ask the technical questions so that I don’t make any rash decisions.  I tend to go with my gut on things and well, that hasn’t always worked out so well.  They ask sound questions of the landlord about power, water, and security. 

But no matter what the answers might have been, I knew within five minutes this house would have to be mine.  Before I arrived in Honiara, I had all these plans to get a kitten, grow a garden, learn to cook great food and get an expat family around me.  I was disappointed that it hadn’t worked out that in Sanalae but I tried to accept it for what it was rather than what I wish it would be.

I go back with the Aussie boys and tell Tessa my decision.  Tessa isn’t as rash as me but she is excited too at the possibility. 

The pasta party turns out to be a real treat; the company is fantastic and I make some more new friends.  But I can’t stop thinking about the house; houses like that go QUICK in Honiara.  I stalk my work mates at the host organization to get things sorted as quickly as possible.

Tessa hums and haws a bit but commits early on.  Marco took some convincing; living with two singles girls in their 30s must be a daunting thing for a single guy but he eventually came around.

The house is secured with a contact and all issues with the house (wonky staircase, bizarre layout of the downstairs bathroom) are quickly resolved.  The landlord will allow us to paint a mural to cover up the downstairs (Tessa is a beautiful artist and is currently taking painting lessons from a local man to master Melanesian art).   

The landlord promises us not one but TWO kittens.  His cat just had kitten yesterday and will give them over to us after Christmas. 

There is a great space for a little garden and wild cherry tomatoes and pumpkins are already growing.  For Tessa it is ideal; her last place is across the street and her old flatmate, Elsa, promises to visit daily. 

This is the place I have dreamt about. 

I was so excited; I got sick the following day and had to go in for a malaria test.  I went to a local clinic that was basic but clean.  The nurse stuck my finger and put a bit of blood on a slide. It took about 15 minutes and the results, thank goodness, were negative.  My local doctor was named Lazarus, which I think is probably the best name for a doctor ever. He is kind and efficient and gives me an antibiotic for a sinus infection. 

After an afternoon in bed, I feel much better and start getting up the courage to do something I had been avoiding: the PADI course.

Now, those who know me well know that I have what one might define as an extreme and irrational fear of sharks. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t hate sharkies; in fact I am fascinated by them.  I’m the first person to sit on the couch and watch Shark Week on Discovery Chanel.  I find them to be beautiful creatures that are sadly facing extinction due to overfishing and destruction of their environment.

I just never, ever want to meet one in the water. 

I take a deep breath.  I pick up the phone and call for my lesson.  The Solomon Islands has some of the best dive spots in the world, due to the plethora of ship wrecks, water clarity, marine environment and temperature of the water.

I sign up and hope for the best.

The next day, its another party, this time for the younger Australian volunteers.  It’s a hot night and a huge thunderstorm is hanging around, just over the water.  The thunder sounds like God is playing pool upstairs.  We talk the night away and before I realize it, it is midnight already and this girl is about ready to turn into a pumpkin.

During Christmas time, it is a veritable gauntlet of parties; one almost every night and new people to always meet.

I realize that it may seem like all I do here is party or go on amazing adventures, but I do actually do some work.  I chose not to write about it much because a) I don’t want my host organization to be embarrassed by this blog (or me) and b) its boring.  Who wants to read a blog about work?

But here is a moderately funny story. Today, I got invited to cover a signing of an important agreement between my host organization and another country.  As a comms person, I’m used to sitting the background, joking with the reporters and making friends with camera guys, listening to the radio jounros complain that they don’t get the same access as the t.v. crews…. But not this time; I was dragged up, front and centre, to represent my organization.  Now, I was wearing my organisation’s polo shirt and a pair of shorts, with jandels, no makeup and legs that hadn’t been shaved in a couple of days.

Now, the host country is very…formal.  So let’s just say I felt completely out of place and I inwardly scolded myself; the problem is here it is hard to dress fancy because the sweat wrecks your nice clothes so quickly.  So yeah, I looked like a university student in finals week.  I vow to step up the work wardrobe…

After that, the weekend perked up quite a lot with another party on Friday night and a beach party on Saturday.  We went to Kangaroo Point, where there is a lovely little house that you can rent for the day and you get the whole beach to yourself. 

We swam in the clear water and created a lovely flotilla of mismatched floaty thingys and gently drifted in the Pacific, with cool beer and good company.  I sit on the beach talking to friends and see a sword fish jump out of the water.  I'm the only one who sees it; everyone else turns around, looks, sees the wake and thinks I'm probably mad.

In the evening, the fire wood was brought out and a we sat around the bon fire, which worked pretty well until the skies poured down rain.  There was something pretty romantic about sitting next to the fire and getting soaked at the same time, with the waves lapping softly in the background. 

The next day was pretty much the same; we went to Bonege Beach.  Now, if there was one famous spot to snorkel and dive in in Honiara, it would be this one. There is a lovely sunken boat there and an artificial reef was created.  Sea urchins and brain coral have attached themselves to the bottom of the ship floor and through it sides.  I’m a bit nervous; the water near the beach is cloudy and the waves are slightly higher than I typically feel comfortable with.

Marco and Tessa stay with me the whole time and we make it over the bow of the ship.  Tessa holds my hand as we swim over the bow of the ship. The ship’s bow comes out like ribs from the ocean’s floor.  As I look below me, the whole thing feels like swimming in a gigantic fish tank.  Tessa grins as she see clown fish swimming in and out of a sea creature’s tendrils. After five minutes or so, I let Tessa's hand go; I felt absolutely silly holding her hand but it did make me feel more at ease.

When we surface she tells me why she loves the little clown fish so much.

“When I was back home, the school I worked with didn’t have enough money to go to the aquarium.  So I hosted a big party and called it “Funding Nemo”.  We made enough money that night to fund not one but TWO trips to the aquarium,” she grins broadly.

 

The ship's rusty old stack rise high about the ocean and local kids happily scale the structure and jump off from the top.  There are lots of people there; it’s a favorite diving and swimming spot.    

After the swim, we sun ourselves and dry off.  The beaches here are mostly rocky and have loads of shell and broken coral.  Note: if you come here, reef shoes are a very good idea!

I’m off to the airport; I’m dropping a colleague off and in return getting their truck for six weeks!   I am beyond excited at this point to be getting my own wheels.

I miss my Jeepie; a little Suzuki I picked up in Christchurch.  This year, after four months of not having any vehicle, I broke down and bought Jeepie.  It was an important purchase for me; it was the first vehicle I ever picked out myself.  I picked it because I wanted to be able to go anywhere; I wanted the freedom of doing what I wanted, when I wanted.  And I got exactly that.  Jeepie was a great symbol and it made me feel just good having her.

The new truck has that same feeling.  The environmentalist inside of me hates to admit it but I simply LOVE driving a truck.  I love the feeling of riding high and the visibility.  I like the feeling of power as well.  It makes all the men here smile when they see me, quite a short woman, climb behind the wheel and take off.

After the truck pick up, was a get together at a woman’s house to look at local art.  Many people are going home for Christmas (I’m not, I’m braving the orphan Christmas once again!) and they want gifts.  The artist’s work is beautiful; he works in three different media: carving, drawing, and painting.  His carvings are really, really special; he uses ebony and rosewood as well as stone.  He inlays shell to beautiful effect and has some 

real unique pieces. 

I don’t buy from him but enquire if he would consider doing a flying fish tattoo design for me (it’s something I’ve been toying with for awhile).  I like the concept of a flying fish; it’s such a unique, beautiful creature and I think it fits me.  He seems excited at the idea and I take down his phone number.  Time will tell if I have enough courage and/or desire to actually do it. 

The day ends with a visit with the new kittens.  Tessa and I pick a brother and sister; one is white with calico spots and the other is fully tabby with beautiful orange throughout her fur.  They are very small; only two weeks old but already the white one is showing his personality.  He talks a lot and playfully fights with his litter mates.  The little girl is the runt of the litter; small and petite and is quite shy but very laid back.  I can’t wait to bring them home. 

In the evening, we have a pasta feast by Tessa and some friends sit around the table talking about life and passion.  A great week, to be sure.

So from last Monday to this were monumental changes in my life.  My Solomon Island family grows; I have a beautiful home, great friends, kittens, a truck and am going to be exploring the underwater world. 

I don’t know how it happened. Maybe it is my constant worship of the Flying Spaghetti Monster (I mean, who can resist his noodlie appendages and the correlation between pirates and climate change?) or my belief that if are going in the right direction, things just work for you. Blessings rain from heaven. Whatever it is, I am so grateful.

I can’t take credit for any of it; I’m just a very lucky fish. 

"Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage." -Anais Nin

Till next time,

S

Solomon Island Recipe of the Week

Recently, I discovered my host organisation has published its own Solomon Island local recipe book. So I thought I'd add a new feature to this blog by posting one Melanesian recipe per week.  Eventually I hope to actually try them but my small kitchen won't allow for much experimentation.

I do however have some great news on that front; last night at the pasta party I went to, I secured a house and not one BUT two Italian flatmates, Marco and Tessa.  The house, which is across from the house the party was at, is beautiful; wood paneling, huge kitchen, and the most beautiful ocean view.  I am so excited!!!

So without further ado, the Solomon Island recipe of the week is:

Slippery Cabbage Soup

• One puzzle (bundle) slippery cabbage
• 2 dry coconuts for cream milk (or just a can of coconut milk)
• One onion
• Two red fruit chillies
• Three long shallots
• Tomatoes (one handful)

1. Scrape and squeeze coconut milk and put to boil (or boil milk from the can)

2. Add chopped onions

3. Cut slippery cabbage twice only and add into boiling milk until half cooked

4. Smash chillies and add onto soup

5. Add sliced tomatoes

6. Cut up the shallots and add to soup, simmer until well cooked

7.  Add salt to taste

And that's it.  Enjoy!     

The Tao of the Expat

On Saturday, it is bright and sunny; perfect day to finally do some laundry.  The laundry machine was already full of washing, so I talked Mary*, the hotel maid, to do some hand washing with me.  Most washing here is done by hand; washing machines are rare. If you go to the beach on Sunday, the rivers are filled with women doing washing; chatting, splashing and laughing while clean clothes dry on the rocks.

Now, I’m not stranger to washing some things by hand but this is a completely different deal; I have a LOT of laundry to do due to the brown water weeks and well, it’s just piled up.  Mary shows me how to effectively wash the whites: spot cleaning with bleach.  There are soap suds everywhere and the great smell of clean washing.  It’s pretty strenuous work though, I break a sweat in the first five minutes of scrubbing, squeezing and sloshing the clothes around.

Mary is endlessly patient with me; I’m much slower than her.  Her movements are expert, rhythmic and her arms are well muscled from years of this work.  For every item of clothes I do, she finishes three.  She checks my work and points out spots that are always an issue on clothes.  Mary is excellent at quality control.     

After the washing comes the rinsing and drying out on the clothes hanger.  I never had a dryer in N.Z., so I had to learn to dry out the clothes on a line or clothes horse.  The effect is better and there is less damage to the clothes over time.

The great thing about handwashing clothes is the company.  Mary tells me a bit about her life; married at 17, six kids and a grandmother at 37.  She smiles and says that she has had a good life and her little pikininis (children and babies) are now grown up.  Originally from Malaita, she moved here in the 1980s but left during the tension.  We sit around and gossip for awhile; it’s a great way to spend a Saturday morning and I have to admit that I can’t wait for next weekend to do the washing.  I’m a total convert to the concept of hand washing; it saves energy, water and its good exercise and its actually quite fun, but probably if you only have a small amount to do. 

Despite enjoying the amenities of the hotel, I’m on the hunt for a shared house.  I’ve been mixing pretty well in the ex-pat community here and I think it’s time for me to make the jump and live with some other people.

On Sunday, I get an invite to go swimming at the Heritage Hotel with some friends.  The hotel is supposedly the only five star hotel in Honiara, but I wouldn’t consider it close to a five star hotel.  Maybe a three and a half star but that would be pushing it.  The day is overcast and grey but the pool is warm.  I jump in with my friends just as it is starting to rain.  The rain comes down in mad sheets, hitting the pool water, creating an amazing effect.  It looks like a thousand jewels plopping on the water.  It’s a great experience; the wind really picked up, causing a brilliant wave action on the pool. 

In the evening, we stay on in the hotel, sipping on gin and tonics and eating pizza, sharing about our lives.  As we talk, I am beginning to see a pattern emerge about expats (caution: generalities are about to used liberally.  Yes, there are exceptions to these patterns.  No, it is not a perfect science.  Chill.)

Anyway, expats seem to share a couple of common traits.  Everyone I talk to seems to have some sort of mixed background. For instance, I have a French mother and an American father and lived in N.Z. for about nine years or so.  Marco*, a lovely Italian man from Rome, has a French mother (we practice our French on each other) and an Italian father (my Italian is pretty poor but I think I gave a convincing Bueno Nueto when we said goodbye that night).  He was also born in Egypt.  My good friend, Tessa* has two Italian parents, but her father was born in Italy and spoke French most of his life. And it goes on…expats tend to have a weird, mixed upbringing.  We tend to not come from homogenous backgrounds.

We moved around, at least once, as kids.  We tend to not stay in one place for very long.  We also tend to like to do other things than just work; playing music, diving, running, being physical, painting, writing…expats always seem to have 100 and 1 hobbies going on.

We don’t seem to like the place we are originally from or at least we don’t feel like we belong there.  The exception in Marco, who loves Rome and hopes to live there again one day.  There is a constant feeling of a lack of home; I feel it myself.  I have no idea where home is anymore or how to define it to myself.  But most expats I talk to seem to feel the same way; there is a sense of homelessness that persists.

We all seem to understand that the way of the expat is a pretty lonely one; assignments last one year to three years and then moving on from beloved friends or relationships.  We are a transient group, moving on quickly from place to place, leaving loved ones behind. 

So I wonder what drives an expat?  Tessa and I both agree that sometimes, a place just kicks you out.  She got kicked out of Washington D.C. and I got kicked out of Canterbury.  Sometimes a place just doesn’t want you around anymore or there is nothing more left to do in that one location.

You sort of feel like that character in that movie I can’t remember; looking in at a house full of people, a warm, big family group. You want to join in, to be a part of it but you just don’t know how.  I don’t know how to live in a house, day in and day out, in the same relationship, same place, and same job for years on end and stay perfectly happy or content.  Neither does anyone around the table.  

Anyway, expats like variety.  Variety is the spice of life and I truly believe it.  All of us have had a variety of jobs, relationships, homes and lived in different countries.   We like to try different cuisine; often the conversation degenerates to “what’s the weirdest food you’ve eaten”.  Typically, rat on a stick in Vietnam or barbecued tarantula from Mexico wins pretty quickly. 

So yeah…we are kinda freakish in nature.  Sure, it would be great to have a home and kids and the whole thing, we all agree.  But we just don’t know HOW we could live that way forever.  Some people make it work and take their families with them.   But it’s a difficult thing, to strike out and live a different kind of life.  I used to take a lot of pride in my weirdness, and then I felt shame. Now I just accept it as a part of my nature. I’m a free spirit, it’s who I am.

There is a strangeness about being here; I feel like I’m finally with MY people.  My expat people, people who get me, who get the desire to try new things and new countries and speak new languages.  People who understand failure and profound loneliness.  People who know what it’s like to spend orphan Christmas’s and Thanksgivings away.   People who argue about futures markets and maternal/child health issues in the same conversation.  I have to admit that I feel a little lost sometimes, even with them. My brain was sort of stagnant for so long, it feels like an electrical shock to the system.  Like I was this thirsty plant and now I am soaking up water madly, almost too much.

As the week rolls on, I step outside my little hotel room and notice two strangers looking at some geckos on the wall.  I sit down, looking at the cooked fish head and invite the pair over.  To be honest, I’ve never eaten a fish head before and I’m a little nervous, so I look forward to the company.  The pair are from Australia, a father and daughter out on an adventure.  

The dad is a psychologist and the girl is studying ecology. We sit and discuss the “tao” of the expat, what makes someone want to leave their home and travel around the world.  

We break out our twin bottles of Islay whisky and start on a rambling conversation that goes late in to the night. Paul* helps me theorize about what makes expats into the weird human beings they are.  We discuss love and egos, transitions, change and growth.   I won't bore you, my faithful reader, on all the insights gleaned that night but I will give you some snippets that I find relevant right now.

We talk about the myth of martyrdom and how toxic it can be for expats, let alone normal people.  That concept of saving the world and changing people around them by sacrificing personal happiness.  I tell him that I feel I am getting more out of this experience, being here in the Solomon Islands, than I am giving into it.  I ask him if that is a good way to feel.

“Yes, I think it is very healthy because you reek of a martyrdom complex and it won’t get you anywhere.  You can’t keep going around, taking jobs, giving your all and resenting the job in the end because you aren’t getting the appreciation you expect.  It’s all tied into your ego and that’s the way to keep being unhappy and it’s putting expectations on people and relationships that is destructive,” says Paul.

“If you do something, do it whole heartedly.  If you give something, same thing.  Do it with a happy heart.  Expect nothing in return.  Do things because you love it.”

I smile. He is right. 

We also talk about the mind and the eastern philosophy of it being like a monkey, jumping from the past and the future, into fantasy and totally bypassing the present moment.

“Life is like a river and the monkey aka your brain is constantly jumping around, muddies the water completely.  But if you keep the monkey still, if you live in the present moment, the river will become clear and you can see things; the past, present and future, in a totally clear way.  Accept what is, rather than what should have been, should is actually the worst word in the human language.  Stop the monkey from jumping and clarity always comes.”

You know, life is pretty amazing.  This weekend, I really wanted someone to talk to about my life and about things.  I asked the universe to help me and here this guy shows up, with another bottle of Isley whiskey (possibly the only other one in Honiara) and really gives me what I need.  What I think the universe or God or whatever needed me to know.

Also, Paul, who lived in Guana and had plenty of experience eating fish heads, helped me get over my fear of eating fish heads…which turned out to be pretty good.  I feel like I want to bottle the conversation with Paul and anytime I've feeling resentful or angry or anything like that, I want to be able to drink in the wisdom again.

So, in conclusion to this rambling, happy long blog, if you ask for something from the universe (or whatever, as you may suspect I am religiously a la carte), you get it in the weirdest ways. 

Trust that, the universe looks out for you in the weirdest, best way possible. 

And as far as the Tao of the expat, I know it’s an often quoted phrase but it’s so true:

“All who wander are not lost.”

 Yep.   

Tok Pidgin

Last week, I started my pidgin lessons.  While English is the “official” language of the Solomons, hardly any locals speak it unless they are talking to expats. Pidgin is based on English but has splashes of French, Spanish and local dialects.

The need for a pidgin or bridge language is pretty obvious; there are about 128 different languages and dialects throughout the country.  Pidgin is pretty universal; most people speak some form of it here.

One of my favorite words is pig pig.  Kororako is also another favorite (pidgin for chicken).  Other words are great like stakka e.g. I got a stakka work or there is a stakka rain coming down. 

Celia is my language teacher; she has been teaching pidgin to starry eyed ex pats for years and anticipates my questions and difficulties. She is from Gwale or Guadalcanal as it is known and talks about life during the tension.  Because her village is away from town, supplies were difficult to get during that time. Celia found 101 ways to find good uses for a coconut, including using it as a soap and a shampoo. 

Not only does Celia act as my pidgin teacher but she also helps me get a better grasp about the culture. Language is the heart of culture; it tells you a lot about what a culture values and what they like to talk about.  For example, in U.S. English, we often express things in financial terms e.g. making an emotional investment or paying someone back when getting revenge.  It is kinda telling that our relationships have an economical basis.

Other than my pidgin lesson, I have been thinking that living in a developing company can be an assaulting experience because I think I have come to realize the illusions, the lies we tell ourselves about our own structures.  People in developing countries are a lot more resilient; they go with the flow a bit more and accept the way things are. 

I think one of the great things about living here is that you have to accept that we aren’t really in control of anything.  Power outages are common.  The water running from the tab is a lovely brownish colour, making it impossible to do washing or to cook rice without it coming out with a nice brown coat on it.  In the developed world, we have built ourselves up in this illusion of control.  It can be very seductive and very comfortable. 

In a place where hot showers o any shower for that matter, are not guaranteed, I have to admit; I would love to go to Vic’s Café and have Eggs Benedict or sit at Fat Eddy’s, listen to music and sip lightly on a Sexy Sara martini (yes they named it after me.  I’m just that sexy).    

After my Thanksgiving dinner, on Saturday, I get invited to a mango party, where everything is orange.  The party went on into the wee hours of the night and into the early morning.

I crash my incredibly shameful, exhausted self at Ally’s* house.  In the morning, Ally makes everyone a beautiful brunch, which includes barbecued bacon (I have never tried, but I love it now), crepes, and all manner of tropical yummies.  Other ex pats come over and we all have a dip in the pool.  An incredibly decadent weekend.         

After the weekend, there has been a small civilian disruption or a bit of violence in Honiara.  I won’t go in to the details but it made for some tense moments at the office.  During times like this, rumours fly all over the show; people ran out watching for the looters and fighters.  Rumours of deaths, murders and injured police officers across the mobile network.  The centre city was cordoned off and a curfew was called and then lifted. 

For the first time being here, I felt a little unsafe.  I mean, intellectually, I was in a big office, with lots of people, away from where people where fighting.  But it reminded me that life here can be unstable and it’s important to respect that.  Things can change here very quickly, so it’s important to stay alert.

I try to remain as calm as possible and just get on with my work.  But there is something almost exhilarating about being in the middle of it.  The exhilaration fades quickly and reality shortly kicks in and I realize, this isn’t a game and it’s not t.v.; some bad stuff could really happen and people could get hurt.  As I look around my office, filled with local people, I worry about their friends and family that might be hurt in the riot.  As an expat, I’m pretty safe; I have the power of at least two governments behind me.  Worst comes to worst, I get a ticket out.  But who will protect them? I would be devastated if any of them were hurt or affected by the violence.

As some of the men who started the fight drive along the roads of Honiara, my tropical escape seems less shiny.  Despite all the fun, the expat parties, there is real work to do here.  Illiteracy, unemployment, gender violence, child abuse…the list goes on and on…and the work will take decades.  The work I do today is a drop in the bucket (with the bucket having a giant hole at the bottom). 

So sure the parties are fun, the people are great and the climate a blessed change to the New Zealand winter.  But the riots, the brown water, the violence simply solidify my commitment to being here and doing all I can to help out.  Maybe I won’t change anything; it would be arrogant to think that I can affect lots of change in this country.  But I’m going to do the best I can in my small part of this beautiful, isolated country called the Solomon Islands.

And try to use the term “stakka” as much as humanly possible (I love it!)

*All names have been changed to protect the innocent and not so innocent.  

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving

This week is when people in America are sitting down together and munching down loads of food.  Halloween is my favorite holiday but Thanksgiving would have to be a close second.  I like the concept of sitting down and sharing stories, food and fun with my family.  And I like the idea of having a day just to be grateful. What a wonderful gift to give to each other: gratitude.

Christmas always disappoints but Thanksgiving is always pretty good. I haven’t been home with my family for Thanksgiving since…well it would have to be around 2000 and that makes me sad because the date always represented good times.

The expat Thanksgiving last night was pretty cool.  The spread is impressive: turkey was replaced by two delicious chickens, the pumpkin pie was homemade (as was everything else) and for dessert was the most gorgeous little pecan pies.

As we sat down, everyone went around the table saying one thing they were thankful for.  After each person spoke, everyone at the table "cheered" and gently clinked our glasses.  I thanked everyone for their tolerance; I was unable to purchase any wine and my beans weren't boiled...I am a horrible guest.

I sat next to a woman who is a harpy of disasters like me (e.g. leaves a place and then disaster hits).  On the other side of me was a Pisces girl, born on 7 March; we are planning a joint birthday party.  We seem to have had parallell lives; she, Australian, lived in the states for nine years, while I lived in N.Z. for nine years.  Across from me is the most gorgeous Italian woman; vibrant and expressive.  And the list goes on...amazing people, amazing food in an amazing place.

We walk out on the balcony, trying to get out of the hot apartment.  The moon rises, orange and almost full.  The night is slightly coolish; the rainy season has begun in earnest.  The big fishing boats are lit up like Christmas trees across the bay; it is a beautiful night for a Thanksgiving feast.

I didn't want to bore the people last night with my long, long list of gratitude but here it is:

Being American (Yep, I said it…deal with it)

Being here in the Solomons has made me view my life in a totally different light. As a woman, I fully appreciate all the advantages given to me growing up in the U.S.  Here, women are treated as second class citizens; not one woman sits in Parliament.

After giving birth, in some places, women are exiled from their villages for up to six months, with the baby and no support.  Infant mortality is high; 40 babies out of 1,000 die before six months.  Many women die in childbirth.  Although women own land, they rarely are allowed to participate in decision making that involves their own land or wealth.  Women work an average of 15 hours a day, while men work an average of 10 hours a day. 

Clearly it is a man’s world here.

Because women are treated less than men, their literacy level is significantly lower.  Boys are given priority over girls to go to school and girls leave at a younger age.  The list goes on and on...I'm not saying that Solomon Islands should change and get all feminist, but I think some thinking and basic changing regarding equality is important. And women being empowered and educated is a central part of development.

There are many other things I like about being American.  As a culture (especially from the West Coast), we are eternally optimistic people.  We are pretty trusting and always think the best of everyone in our lives.  We tend to be less critical and more accepting of people.  We aren't afraid to discuss politics or religion, sharing our views openly.  We are unabashed workaholics BUT I think thats fine, if you are doing something that fulfills you.  I appreciate the American loud and happy nature; even through dark times, most people find reasons to smile and have a laugh.

I love the vastness of land, the diversity of environments and people.  Its a land of immigrants (which it sometimes forgets).

In America, it DOES feel like anything is possible.

Being French too

Yep, I love the frenchies.  The French, for all their strikes and interesting policies, are pretty cool people.  Their cheese alone makes me proud to be a half frenchie.

Living in New Zealand

This week, the miners on the West Coast lost their lives to a tragic accident.  Kiwis across the globe grieved, mourned and supported each other.  The loss of 29 men on a small West Coast community is beyond tragic; it is devastating.  I had the privelage of working for the New Zealand Blood Service back in the early 2000s, and I know every community on the West Coast to Fox Glacier…

I was proud to work with the people of the West Coast…Coasters have a different sensibility than the people in the east…I remember one time, I got a rental van stuck in the mud on the way to Greymouth.  I remember the two men clearly, wearing stubby shorts and long, waterproof jackets with gum boots.  The men pushed us out of the mud and when we offered them a bottle of wine instead of beer, they politely turned us down, clearly wanting a beer instead.

I am eternally thankful for having the opportunity to live in one of the best countries on earth. Kiwis are an pretty cool bunch of people and I feel, in my heart, deeply connected to New Zealand.

Someday I hope to live there again, a nice little house on a lifestyle block with llamas, a big garden and ducks and a new cat with the name Mrs. Dot Dot.  I imagine sitting on the porch, with a few more grey hairs and a big smile, sipping happily on a red wine and eating some stinky cheese, reflecting back on my life, watching my kids play, the Southern Alps glimmering in the background.

It's a whole thing, a whole life that I look forward to someday, just not quite yet.

Being alone

I have a confession to make: I like living alone.  I’m not the easiest person to live with, certainly, so I sort of figure I’m better living on my own.  I’m an independent soul; I like taking care of myself and not being reliant on anybody. 

I think living alone teaches you a lot, it has certainly taught me a great deal.  You have to learn how to like and love yourself, understand your flaws and work on them.  I’ve begun to really cherish my own company, without the need of TV. or friends to distract me from thinking about things.  All the energy I have is dedicated towards making me a better person.  And what can be wrong with that?

Great jobs

Okay, I’ve had great jobs.  I really have.  No, really.  Stop laughing.  I have been in places that are unique and I’ve met the most amazing people.  Like women who have survived years of domestic violence, only to leave the relationship and become a community advocate against it.  Or the women in Namibia who house 60 people because they can.  Or the guys who have gone to every large scale disaster in Asia in the last 20 years.  I mean the list goes on…

My jobs have done that for me, the new one and the old.  I am forever grateful to those jobs and those people who mentored me, helped me and made me a better person. 

My Family

My family is just awesome. They just are.  Not to say your family isn’t too; these things aren’t mutually exclusive.  My parents are patient with their wayward travelling daughter and they help me out all the time.  My mom helps me do things and my dad helps me feel through things.  They are great. So are my brothers, and my sister in law.

I also got an awesome extended family too.  

My friends

Seriously. I have great friends.  I have had friends who have helped me cry, dance the night away, drink me under the table, pack up my things, drag me up Ben Nevis (I’m looking at you, Eddy) and help me live my life.  I am indebted to all my friends.    

My pain

Life is not without its heartbreaks and sadness.  Of course there are days when life sucks and when you wish you could do things differently. Regret is a part of learning. I’m not going to tie a bow on this one and make it pretty but my pain and heartbreak has helped me along the path of my life.  Sometimes I did the hurting and sometimes it was the other way around but either way, this year has been a great teacher.  It taught me how to let go with love, how to put the needs of others first. It is better that you let someone go, with grace and kindness, than to keep them in misery and anguish, thereby stifling their growth as a person.

That is real love.

Music

This year, I am grateful that I connected with my old hobbies, especially my love of music, both performing and listening.  I had really limited myself musically for a long time, and I don’t know why exactly.  But I am grateful for re-connecting with my love of music. It saved me.

Strangers

The gift of strangers; what would I do without the people who helped me get my leg untrapped in Sydney?  The countless people I asked for directions because I was lost and they gave me the right way to go? Or the bartender who introduced me to Isley whiskey free of charge (because he was quitting)? 

I have been really protected by having come across good people who have looked after me and I never see them again.  I am grateful for them.

Fear

Seriously. I have a lot of fears. I’m terrified of sharks (which is why I’m going to go diving and get PADI certified). Heights (which is why I joined an abseiling team). Miley Cyrus (there is no cure for a Miley Cyrus phobia, sadly).  Coming to a new country where I know practically no one.  These are all fears of mine. Some of which I can deal with, some I can’t.  But my fears often compel me to do something different.  I’ve had a great year of facing fears about being alone, heights, traveling to exotic places. 

Fear hasn’t stopped me but just encouraged me along the path.

Love

I am grateful this year of having loved and having been loved.  I believe that love is the most powerful energy on this planet and it can transform our whole lives, if we let it.  But the most important love, I learned this year, was for myself (I know, I sound like a Whitney Huston song…deal with it). 

Seriously, after years of searching for love in other people, I realized that I was wasting so much time and energy when I just needed to give love to myself. This may seem basic to most people but it took me quite awhile to get a handle on it.  So I am grateful that I learned that.

All this gratitude leads me to one fairly fundamental issue: I am grateful for my life.  I couldn’t always say that this year with confidence but I can now.  And I hope that when you sit around with your family (whoever you are, gentle reader) that you can say the same.  Because life is too short to not be grateful for what you have.  

And you have much more than you can imagine.  The list above is so small compared to the detailed account of my life. 

That is my wish for you this year and the next.  Be grateful for what you have and enjoy the ride.  Be gentle to others and respect their journey too.  Understand that in life, we actually can only control ourselves and how we view the world, everything else is in someone else’s hands. 

I wish you, my friends, family and strangers (aka people I don’t know yet) the very best this Thanksgiving.

Love,

S   

Duck! Flying Fish

On Saturday, a 12 hour day trip is changed to Monday to wait for petrol.  Life at the Gizo office is a bit of a waiting game; there is a petrol shortage and boating schedules get changed quickly.

So, instead, Crissie and I do some work at the office and walk around Gizo.  Gizo is a great little town; sure there are heaps of piles of rubbish on the side of the road but everyone is friendly and I feel safe here.  Its hot and dusty and there are probably only four restaurants in the whole place.  My favorite is a place under a palm frond hut, I think its called Gina's but I can't recall.  Anyway, they have the best fish and chips I've ever tasted; the fish was caught in the morning.  Its a reef fish and is slightly sweet to taste.  We sit and munch on our food, waiting for the word on the boat schedule.  It doesn't come.

Instead, I book a massage at the Gizo Hotel.  The massage hut is right next to the pool and a wonderfully motherly looking woman named Anna gestures for me to come inside.  I mean its a real massage hut; the roof is made of palm fronds and two massage tables are set up inside.  

First off, modesty goes out the window with only a small towel covering me up.  There is no changing area but its okay, no guests walk by.  At first I get a bit stressed at the lack of security but then I relax.  The massage is wonderful, maybe the best I've ever had.  Anna combined a local technique with Swedish and Deep Tissue massage.  In the Solomons, there is a local technique which is indescribable but amazing. 

I leave, completely relaxed.  If you are reading this to get tips on what to do in Gizo...do this...totally worth the 80 solomon dollars! (about 12 dollars N.Z.)

On Sunday, we hop aboard ye olde speed boat for a day trip out to Kolomonbangara, the big, circular looking island.  The volcano hasn't erupted in 10,000 years but scientist still say it can go off at any time.  I really, really don't want to be around it on that day.

The island is lush; we attend a high school graduation and walk around the campus.  We go to the waters edge and Ben and I notice a sea turtle in the water.  I get excited and quietly move towards the turtle; I don't want to disturb it.  I get about five feet and I can't see the body, only the head occasionally bobbing up and down.  My heart beats faster; I love sea turtles.  

"It's a stick!" shouts Ben.

I turn bright red...there goes my ability to tell sea turtles from a stick. Wahoo!

We head over to Kennedy Island, the place where the U.S. former president swam for hours to get to after his boat was sunk by the Japenese.  The island is a typical picture of paradise; a grove of large coconut and palm trees a top of white sand beaches.  Coral reefs surround the island and I take a dip to play with the fishes.  

A long time ago, my brother and I did a seminar way back when I was in my early 20s.  It was sort of an empowerment/counseling seminar popular in the late 1990s, a lot of fuzzy, huggy stuff, which I am in favour of. Anyway, in the seminar, they asked to visualize where we would like to go to talk to God, where would be our sacred place.

I said that mine would be on an island, with no one around, a white sandy beach, a few palm trees and calm, clear waters surrounding the island.    

This is the place, back then, where I imagined where I could talk openly with God.  

I wonder what I would ask God now, after all these years?  Or would I punch God in the face for being such a bastard?  For breaking my heart and allowing me to question the very value of my existence? Or scream at God for all the unfairness I've witnessed? Or would I get down on my knees and honestly, deeply thank God for my life, my friends...all the love that I have experienced in my life?

I'm not sure; I might do all of those things. 

We leave the island and head over to Fat Boys, the local diving resort.  Its mostly Australians everywhere but there are a few European tourists.  By then, I'm lobsterfied; no matter how much sun block I put on, it never seems to work.

Ben joins me in the snorkeling.  Its Ben's first time snorkeling and he takes to it pretty well.  Ben is big on "friendly fish" and "communicating with fish", so he heads straight for all the reef fish. One particular fish is completely startled and just stares at him.  

"Me and the fish, we communicated!" He smiles when we hit the surface.

Later, as I suck down a SolBrew, we see the black tip of a shark fin swimming not 100 metres from where Ben and I snorkeled.

"Don't worry, its a friendly shark!" Ben says, laughing.  He swims off to go communicate with it.  Sigh...

Somehow, I don't really believe him.  But there is that feeling of sharks being friendly here.  Ben insists that sharks protect people in the water after a boating accident (he is on the marine rescue team here).  Still, I think if my boat was sunk, I wouldn't want to see any shark fins swimming towards me.

The day is perfect, warm, sunny...and I get back to the motel exhausted.  

The next day, we head off to Vella...we go around the whole island, hunting down our distribution team.  We spot two large pods of dolphins just off shore.  It takes about three hours skirting through reefs and dodging markers.  I can smell the local volcano, rather than see it.  Steam rises up from the island, encircling it with a menacing smog.  

The driver smiles.

"Croc area here...lots of crocs!"

Great...

The village we visit is clean, tidy and there are loads of little children running around, happy.  The project my host organisation started was very successful here and we are able to complete the work in about three hours.

By then the wind has whipped up and its about 35-40 knots.  The sea starts to churn and large swells come in as we hit the channels.  The speed boat, with two large engines at the back, slaps up and down along the waves.  Ben and another worker have to sit in front to stabilise the boat.  They let off squeals of delight as the boat goes up and down.  

Suddenly, a flying fish makes a suicide run in the air towards Ben...Ben, with the reflexes of a panther, screams like a girl, bats it away and it flys overboard, across my shoulder.  The moment of tension is broken, the whole crew doubles over with laughter, even the driver.  We laugh until we cried.

The rest of the trip is uneventful, except Ben eggs the driver on to go as fast as possible back to Gizo.  We whip our way around reefs and shoals quickly.

The trip ends with a quick visit through the crowded market at Gizo. Crissie and I make big plans to cook a feast only to find out at that the kitchen is now out for good.  We eat some biscuits and go to bed.

The next day we head off or at least try to head back to Honiara.  We head off to the airport island on the speed boat.  And wait. And wait.  For about two hours, which is nothing in Solomon Islands...we munch on fish and chips...probably the best fish and chips I have ever eaten.  The fish was caught in the morning, fresh tuna (or bonito as it is known here) and it is delicious.  

The plane, a small 15 seater, finally arrives and we head off into big storm clouds.  I love flying on the smaller plane; the small islands and atolls look amazing from the height.  

Honiara is stormy and wet when we arrive.  The next three days are a blur of meetings; there is an important three nation meeting for my organisation there.  We go out to Red Mansion, a place only about a five minute walk from where I live, for a Melanisian buffet and dancing.  The dancing is better than in Gizo; its essentially about twenty nice looking young men dancing around.

One man, sitting next to me, mentioned that he thinks this dance is more for women to enjoy than men.  Unless you are of a certain persuasion, he winks...

All and all a good week in Honiara...today I've been here a month.  I'm learning something new everyday; time is moving quickly.  Life is happy.

At our devotion today, a guy from India mentions that:

"We must get out of our comfort jones..." (he means zones; its an accent thing).

And he is right.  Its great to stay comfortable, to never change or be challenged.  To stay with people who believe as you do, and pat you on the back saying how awesome you are.  But here, I find myself every day being challenged, and faced with assaults on my belief systems.  Its wonderful and difficult and frustrating.  I'm growing and changing and moving on.  

After thinking about the island where I could talk to God, I think, if I was to see God, I would thank God for all God (notice my non gender specific use of God) has done for me.  I am grateful for my new life here. There are days when I miss people from Christchurch or miss my old life or relationships.  But I accept that things change and this is the new reality.  I'm wrong sometimes and here I'm finding out just how wrong about some things I am...its hard to know but also I'm learning about how to change myself too.    

I just have to watch out for flying fish.

Gizo Town

Honiara becomes cooler over the next three days; rainy season has finally arrived.  The city seems to take a collective sigh of relief; temperatures had soared up to 36 degrees. 

I go to a couple of parties and get an invite to join a singing group, a potential new flat and five new friends.  It’s amazing how quickly I’ve gotten to know people here; both the expat community and locals are so willing to make friends. 

Crissie*, my host organization counter part and I make plans to head off to Gizo at the end of the week to finish the comms work on a tsunami recovery project the organization has been working on.  Getting to Gizo is a little bit of an effort; planes get cancelled and we fly into a nice thunderstorm in our 30 seater Dash-8.

One of the panels above the heads of one of the passengers comes off and gently smacks him in the head.  He smiles, some of the passengers laugh and he replaces it, securing the duct tape.  I wonder to myself what else is secured by duct tape on the plane. 

Islands in Western Province

I sit next to the engine, counting the rivets as we fly high above sparkling little atolls and jungle islands.  It’s a beautiful flight to Gizo but it takes almost double the time because we stop at Munda and Sege, two little settlements.  It is difficult to imagine but Western Province is home to about 83,000 people scattered across hundreds of small islands.

Our Dash 8 and Crissie

As we fly into Gizo, I can see Kolombangara, which is a gigantic volcano.  It resembles a Hersey’s Kiss that a toddle bit the top off of. Because we fly in so late, we just go to our hotel. 

Gizo is like an antidote to Honiara.  In Honiara, there is a great energy but also a strong urban angst.  Here, everyone is laid back and pedestrians rule the road.  There are only a few cars here and people walk in the center of the road, surprised to see a truck when it passes.  The markets are packed; Gizo is a hub for the surrounding islands.  There isn’t as much variety but food is cheaper here and the fish is fresher too. 

Island Boys dancing...

Ben*, the office manager, takes me and Crissie out to see local music.  It’s basically an acoustic guitar jam, with about seven guitarists. In the middle, is the famous bamboo instrument.  This is an impressive instrument, about three metres long and three rows of bamboo high. The bamboo trees have been polished and hollowed out, cut to a certain length to create a note when a piece of dried coconut, like a stick wacks the opening of the bamboo.  When they finish, they take apart the instrument and it strikes me that it resembles the harps in a piano.

There is also local dancing.  Its only men and boys, painted with white lyme from coral.  It’s sort of a warrior dance but they also dance to reflect the birdlife there.  It’s totally different from any Polynesian dancing I’ve seen; its primal and jarring to watch.  Ben explains some of the dances to me and tells me the story of the Solomon Island icon, Nguzonguzo, which is basically a big head of a guy.  The head graces the front of canoes, and when he is carrying a bird, it means peace.  When he is carrying another head, it means war.  By the way these guys dance, I’m not sure I would feel very comfortable going to war with them.

Me and Ben.

The next day we head off to Simbo, one of the islands effected by the tsunami in 2007.  I thought we were going to take the “banana boat”; a common canoe with a small outboard motor.  Instead, we go in luxury on a 20 foot speed boat that powers its way quickly to the island.  As the boat starts on the plane, I get a familiar sinking feeling.  The first “whack” hits and I remember what this is going to be like.

Boat.

When I was living in New Zealand, my ex father in law used to take us out in the Marlborough Sounds for holidays.  He is a typically stoic kind of guy, economical with his words and smiles but he still has the best mo in the business.  He loves speed and would typically go as fast as humanly possible, not caring if his passengers didn’t enjoy being shaken and whacked around.

Pretty beach.

In this moment, I am supremely grateful for my ex father in law’s ways; he turned a prissy, spoiled American girl into an adrenalin loving, sea faring wench.  I say a little prayer of thank you to him and hope it reaches him in N.Z.  I end up loving every minute of the hour ride over. 

It’s interesting how experiences we think are traumatic and unpleasant at the time just prepare us for some bigger purpose.    

My life jacket gets untied briefly and the straps fly out behind me, creamy coloured flags like I’m surrendering.  I’m embarrassed; my knots really SHOULD be better!  When I’m done tying the knots better, I notice the water, while deep, is totally clear and I can see the bottom; the water clarity must be about 200 metres!   

The islands are spectacular and we power around reefs and shoals.  Sea birds perch on floating logs and coconuts. Flying fish glide gracefully across the glassy water.  It’s a beautiful day on the ocean and I think to myself, not a bad day at the office.

We get to Simbo and clamber up a path to get to the village.  It has been completely rebuilt, although some houses still need to be completed by the community.  I talk to the villagers; the kids just stare at me the whole time and follow me around.  I’m surprised at all the good works my organization has done in the space of three years.  Rebuilding entire communities is no small tasks; recovery takes years to happen properly.  I feel really grateful for this job.  Anyway, we shoot some interviews, take some still photographs and are back on our way.

A bar made ENTIRELY of Bamboo...called the Bamboo Bar...what will the clever kids think of next???

The ride back is a lot smoother and quicker than the way over.  I feel powerful, alive and fearless; I greet every whack with joy and laughter.  I’m no longer afraid.  Sometimes, my own life surprises me; I never planned to be the adventure girl.  But here I am, powering my way in one of the most remote places on earth.  A million things could go wrong and no one would be able to help me. But nothing did.

I can’t imagine a better life for myself and the alternative of living in Christchurch, sitting behind a desk and living a life of routine leaves me absolutely cold.      

All good things have its price. When we get back to the hotel, I discover have a slight sunburn, despite my best efforts to slather myself in sun screen, wearing a hat and sunglasses.  And I have a lovely purple bruise on my side from to boat ride. Also, my camera got a good whack and deleted all the photos I had taken thus far! BOO!

You better not cause any trouble in Munda...or they will throw into the Police Shack!  Fear the BLUE POLICE SHACK!!!

We spend the night out again, this time we go to the Gizo hotel and watch another guitar group, with a bored looking bass player at the back.  The lead singer created a shaker using shells and a used water bottle.  Talk about reusing!  The music is beautiful and the performers clearly enjoy themselves.

Then there is dancing, tameray, which isn’t really local.  Polynesians have settled in parts of the Solomons and brought their dances over, so it’s sort of an amalgamation of Tahitian dancing and Hawaiian hula.  Afterwards, the dancers grab people from the audience to dance with them and Ben and I hit the dance floor.  I’m tired from my day at sea and walking but I feel alive; filled with adrenalin from the boat ride over.   

In that moment, I’m grateful for every disappointment and traumatic experience, for every preverbal “whack” of the speed boat, because it brought me here, to Gizo.