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.   

My coconuts

The Sanalae walking group takes real form over the next couple of days.  The group has a revolving members, but one day Cynthia*, from Vanuatu and John* from Fiji walk with me down through the valley to visit one of the villages.  Cynthia is a gender and cultural trainer and John works in a women’s health organization.

Cythnia is a small Vanuatu lady, in her 40s with a mass of beautiful curly hair and she carries herself with power and respect.  John is a Fijian but looks very Tongan, tall and imposing. Later, over drink, we discover that he is, in fact, part Samoan. I could walk anywhere in Honiara next to John.

We follow a dirt road down into the valley.  There is a spattering of modern houses but it mostly thatched huts, the kind I’ve seen mostly in photographs.  In Samoa, the houses are entirely different.  There the houses are open air with cement pillars on the outer walls to hold the structure up.  But here, the huts are real traditional grass huts, not a stone’s through from my thoroughly modern hotel. 

It’s a Maliatian village; this area of Honiara is mostly Maliatian.  Some of the children have blonde, curly hair.  They giggle when they see me; I guess I must be fairly funny looking with my red hair and pale skin.  Or maybe I’m just funny looking full stop.  As we pass, people smile and say “ev-an-ning”.  Fires are lit and fill the valley with smoke.  We climb up a ridge and get a wonderful panoramic of the neighbouring valleys.  On the ridge there a lovely flat field covered in high, brown grass.  Frangipani trees line the field and perfume the air, counteracting the smoke.  I felt miles away from Honiara town and closer to the real heart of the Solomons.

John and Cynthia are great company; we talk about gender equality in the South Pacific.  As we talk, I realize that I’m not sure that we are exactly any better in New Zealand.  Most of the organizations I have worked for have been run by men.  When Helen Clark ran the country, she was respected but most people thought of her as cold and calculating; if she was a man, I doubt those words would have been used.

“Yes.  Feminism actually worked against us there didn’t it?  Now men expect us to work but we can’t walk away from our traditional roles of taking care of the house and the children.  If we fail in any of those areas, we are thrown away for someone who can fill that role.  Men can sit around and not work but we have to do it all.”

“We have to be superwomen, good at everything.”

The hill climbing has made us all sweaty and we go back to the hotel and have showers.  I crack open my bottle of gin and we have Sprite and Gin (normally it would be tonic but there is none available close to the hotel).  I learn a couple of painful lessons that night: never let a Fijian grab hold of your bottle of Bombay gin and never try to keep up with their drinking either.  My head pounds the following morning; it’s been ages, I think since Edinburgh, since I’ve had a good night on the terps…and my body is still adjusting to the climate and the meds I have to take for malaria. The next day, I’m not very hung-over but more listless. 

A new girl comes to the organization and we go out to lunch.  Lily* is a traveler from Australia but staying in the Solomons for a few weeks as a volunteer.  For being as young as she is, she is down to earth and practical.

In the evening coconut, I drink rum, lime and coconut water with Renegade* (I really need to stop allowing people to choose their own fake names), a man originally from South Africa but now living in New Zealand.  Renegade is a man of many talents, a lawyer, computer programmer and business man, he is incredibly interesting.  He started his career in a seminary and has an interest in matters of the church.  We stay up late talking about life and the gospel; it’s interesting how easy it is to talk about theology here. But don’t worry, my peeps, I’m not going to turn into a bible thumping teetotaler any time soon.

The next day, Cythnia and I walk down to the market around noon.  It’s hot and dusty.  The market is popular and we run into about four friends while we are there.  Cynthia used to live in Sydney and here, in the Solomons.  Her husband left her for a couple of years and returned after a serious incident.  We talk about safety and how dangerous it is to travel as a single woman.

“Men are useful for security,” Cynthia says.

Sure, I’ll buy that.

On Sunday, Renegade and I join the owner of the hotel, Phillip* and his wife Bella* for a day of touring around Honiara and the surrounding area.  Phillip takes us to his furniture factory.  Phillip designs his own furniture and makes it from local hardwoods.  The factory is beautiful and smells of wet sawdust.  The designs are simple and beautiful.  It’s thrilling to see that the timber here doesn’t just end up directly on the boats to China; here value is added.  I wish New Zealand did more of the same.

I’ve always had a thing for exotic woods; here there is a lot of ebony and other hardwoods here.  Wood carving is a real skill here, with sea shells inlaid.  Turtles seem to be a common theme, as well as canoes, warriors, fishermen, and sharks. 

Anyway, the next stop is to the Chinese noodle shop (not its actually name; I doubt anyone knows the name of the café.) The doors are metal and the sign is so faded I can’t make out a name.  If I didn’t know it was a café, I would never have gone in.  We walk in and it’s a tidy wee place.  Local Chinese delicately munch on the noodles; wait till they get a load of me slurping down my fried noodles.

We sip on iced coffees.  Peter*, who is studying to be an Anglican minister, and Renegade get into a vibrant discussion about who suffered more: Job and or John the Baptist.  It’s a total Candide moment and besides, you can’t compare one person’s suffering to another’s.  It’s impossible; everyone has a different tolerance level for pain and grief.    

We shuffle on to visit the Church of Melanesia’s Brotherhood.  The religious community is about 45 minutes from downtown Honiara.  Because it’s Sunday, most of the brothers are relaxing.  I get a chance to speak to one of the novices, who has been charged with showing us around the compound.  No women live there; these men emulate the life of monks and priests of the Catholic Church. 

Peter* takes me to the graves of the seven brothers.  Peter is a novice, not yet a full brother.  He wears a bright blue shirt and lava lava with a brilliant red sash.  His rosary is made out of shells and a small wooden cross inlaid with mother of pearl.

He explains that during the tension, the brothers helped arrange for a peace treaty between the factions.  But being the intermediary has its price; one of the brothers was captured.  Six brothers went to find him and were reported missing.  It turns out that four of them were tortured to death and the three others were shot on sight.   Of course the Tension is long over and hopefully it will never happen here again.

Peter is such a lovely, warm young man and my eyes tear up listening to the account of the seven brothers.  I wonder what would move people to such violent acts against men of peace.  I sit under a tree, looking at their graves, contemplating cruelty and courage.  I wonder if I would have gone to a dangerous place and pleaded for peace, like the Brothers.  Or would I have stayed at home, safe and self satisfying. I guess by coming here and giving up my life back home, I sort of have made my choice to follow the peaceful path and putting money where my mouth is.  Only time will tell if it’s false bravado and arrogance or something more. 

We walk around the courtyard; simple buildings encircle an area with one very large banyan tree.  We leave the campus to go and visit Peter's house.  He is finishing his Bachelor in Theology this week; his family moved from Vanuatu to live here and support him in his studies.  Kittens scramble and play around the house.  Kids play in the kitchen house. Kitchens are kept separate from the living area, which seems a good idea in a tropical climate with no refrigerators.  Smoke curls from the chimney of the kitchen house, which is predominately made of grass and palm fronds.

We leave the whole compound and drive down to the beach where I take a nice dip in the ocean.  Renegade tries a beetle nut, and I give it a go too.  Locals combine chewing the nut with mustard and Lyme ground from coral.  It is suppose to give the chewer a hallucinogenic and calming experience, all the while giving the chewer a red, slaughtered looking mouth, similar to the Joker. I didn’t try it with Lyme or mustard but chewing the nut felt like chewing on a block of wood.    

The day ends with Phillip taking us to his very purple house.  His wife is a big fan of purple, a royal colour and the colour of powerful women, she says, smiling.  She is a powerful woman too and gives me good background on all kinds of issues in the Solomons, from the Tension to women’s rights to where to go snorkeling in Gizo.

The next day, I feel slightly ill and panic because I’m terrified of getting malaria.  I swallow my Doxycylican every day, like a good girl, which gives me slight stomach upset but totally worth it.  There is no 100 percent effective preventative medication against malaria.  And it can kill you, if it gets out of control.  But I feel my chances are pretty good that I would fine, with the right treatment.  After it has been determined that you have it, they give you pretty effective drugs against the virus. 

There is lots of fighting outside the compound at night; drunk men scream and fight each other.  I get scared alone in my hotel room, feeling stupid because there is a huge wall and security guards at night. I shouldn’t be afraid of drunken men; I lived in Christchurch for heaven’s sake!

Anyway, that night, I'm still feeling slightly shaky and to help me feel better, Renegade makes me vegetable curry; he uses leaves from the curry plant at the hotel to make it.  Renegade is one of the most resourceful men I have ever met; there doesn’t seem to be much he can’t do.  Once he hears I’m ill, he heads off and gets me a coconut. 

Now, I’m in danger of developing a raving addiction to young coconuts.  Younger, green coconuts are filled with coconut water and the coconut flesh is so soft, it resembles a jelly.  Coconut water is filled with good stuff, if you want to know more, go here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coconut_water.

The flesh is delectable.  After about three of these coconuts, I’m convinced that we are missing out on something in New Zealand (yes I know there are coconuts there but we tend to get old ones). 

Coconuts are pretty much the most perfect fruit on earth, as far as I can tell.  Not only can it re-hydrate you and feed you, you can coconut milk from it and coconut oil.  You can use the husks to make paper and other fibers.

In the Philippines, coconut trees are called the Tree of Life.  It makes me wonder whether the tree developed because we needed it or did we evolve our bodies to make such good use of something already there…Scarlett and I talk on Monday night, discussing my various adventures from the weekend and how I’m doing.

“You need to be like the coconut; totally capable and able to self sustain if you want to survive here.  Or actually survive anywhere.  Be your own coconut, Sara.  Be totally resilient.  By being that, you will feed and sustain others around you.”

I'm not sure what it takes to be a good coconut in this life.  I guess I'll just have to hang on and find out.

*All names have been changed to protect the innocent or not so innocent, as in John's case.

Honiara Daze

It’s hot here…I mean really hot.  I grew up in a desert and I’m used to hot. I lived in Hawai’i and I got used to hot and humid...must have lost that in when I was living in Christchurch for so long.  But right now, right before the cyclone season is set to begin…I’m not going to lie to you.  It’s hot.  But the locals say that it is unusually hot right now (thank you El Nino, you disturbingly named little bastard southern oscillation system).    

I thought Hawai’i would prepare me for this place.  It didn’t.  In fact, I think the Solomons is hotter than Hawai’i right now.  Things that bothered me about Hawaii were the overenthusiastic use of air conditioners.  That doesn’t happen here; people can’t afford to put the A.C.  to a constant 20 degrees (77 ish).  So it’s easier to get used to the weather here because you just have to.  I am getting used to a whole new level of sweat pouring down my back and pit stains.  Fantastic.

The other thing was that in Hawai’i it felt like an uphill battle to make friends and meet people, while here, everyone is so friendly.  I get dinner invites and party invites all the time, simply because I’m new here.  People offer to take me to the beach or to the markets, perfect strangers.  Maybe I shouldn’t be so trusting…but they all seem to have good intentions.  I make more friends here in a week than I did in a month in Hawai’i.  Or six months in New Zealand.  It’s fantastic. 

Living off the markets is a real thrill.  I’m becoming an expert at okra stir fry and the new, fresh produce inspires me to try new things every time I visit.  The markets are open every day, even Sundays (the Seventh Day Adventist market).  I'm trying out new things each time I go there; I'm looking forward to trying the tapioca pudding next and seeing what I can do with cooking bananas (once I get an oven, of course).

Everything here seems to open up so easily, like a flower.  I always meet interesting people who have lived all over the world, sometimes in less than safe circumstances.  The stories these people tell are fascinating.

People are transient here and the locals are seem to be generally interested in new people so I think the combination of this is that  there is a real willingness to be open and lively.  There is music and bands playing here.  The singing is amazing and everyone seems to play guitar.  There is a great rhythm to the city. 

Last night, I went to Scarlett's birthday party.  It was filled with people and I get phone numbers and promises of snorkeling, sharing documents (I'm a disaster geek, deal with it), and invitations out to eat.  Scarlett is the life of the party, as always, and it's good to be there for her when she is so far from home.  I know all to well what it feels like to celebrate holidays and birthdays far from family and friends. I've lived that life for almost nine years. There is always a fear that no one will show up or care about those important dates.  

It's a very hard thing leaving your family and friends behind.  Scarlett's kiwi friend Greg* tells me I'm a vagrant, a person without country.  He's right, I no longer have any plans to settle anywhere; I have no idea what I'm going to do once this assignment is over.  For all I know I could end up in Afghanistan or Timbuktu...nothing is holding me to one place anymore.    

But right now, I just hope my birthday in March will be a similar size and liveness to Scarlett's.  It's something small but I'm a little hopeful.

Getting into the swing of things at work has been really good too. Every Monday and Friday, my host organization has devotionals.  The devotional starts with everyone in the building getting in a room together and singing religious songs.  There is a prayer, then a little thought that involves reading the Bible (usually about service) and a summary of the week’s events given by one of the senior management.  People share personal good news (births, marriages) and losses (deaths, leaving the organization). 

As a public servant, I have to say that I’ve never come across anything like it.  I’m a strong separation of church and state kind of girl, through and through. But it seems to unite everyone to take 30 minutes at the beginning and ending of each week to remind each other why we are here, why we do what we do.  I’ve only heard one person espouse the belief that the Solomons should be more governed by Christian laws.

After about 10 days of living in the Sanalae apartments, I was driven literally up the wall.  The room, while nice, is tiny and I spent far too many hours in it.  I love living out of one suitcase; I think one of the best things about being here is the challenge of having very little and making due.  It feel great to let go of material things (even shoes) and live as simply as possible.

Anyway, the next morning, I ask Rose*, who works at the hotel, if she would walk with me around the area.  She agreed and in the evening we walked through the lush hills. The valleys are filled with small huts and houses and people are friendly enough.  I get a lot of stares and a few honks from various cars filled with young men.  This happens a lot; being a single woman does have its downsides in Honiara. 

The loss of freedom does really get to me because it isn’t safe to walk alone at night and in some place, during the day by myself. I’m used to being on my own, doing my own thing and going out where I want to.  Here, it’s just not safe enough for women, especially an expat. Men have no problem whatsoever. It’s frustrating to me but I’m trying to make peace with it.

The next day, Rose leaves flowers in my hotel room as a gesture of friendship.  She knows I love flowers in my apartment; it makes the whole place come alive. 

I meet some of the other guests in the hotel and we agree to start a walking group in the evening.  The people are usually from the U.N. or working in development or social issues.  It’s great to talk to people who are as passionate about development as I am.  I fell in love with development when I was in Namibia.  For me, Namibia was one of the happiest times of my life. Now the concept of living without a television, washing machine or running water (at times, but mostly we had it), living in one of the largest deserts on earth may not appeal to many people but I loved it there. I believed in the work I was doing, met interesting people, read heaps of books, and lived a pretty basic life.  It filled me with a sense of peace and happiness I hadn't really felt before or really since.  I got the bug and it never went away.

From a philosophical standpoint, I guess what pushed me into development was the concept of choice.  I’m a big believer in people’s right to choice, whatever the issue is.  In developing countries, people’s choices are very limited. 

For so long, people here have only had one choice here: to live in a subsidence lifestyle due to poverty and isolation.  Those wanting other lives had no choice but to get out there and fish.  To me, development means access to choosing differently, which I think is a human right.   

Now, I don’t have some fantasy of making the Solomons Islands like N.Z. or the U.S…I don’t think those places are good places to emulate.  A consumer based society, while making people more comfortable, hasn’t made people happier and it isn't environmentally sustainable. At least as far as I can tell.

At some point I think everyone asks themselves: what is this silly old life about?  And hopefully, we all come up with the answers.  I guess you get to a point where you want your life to mean something; you want to make a positive contribution to the world, even if it is small. 

My life in N.Z. was pretty sweet; I had great friends, a great job and a good relationship.  But I couldn’t just sit around and do nothing anymore. I mean, sure, it was great being able to eat out every night if I wanted to and walking around alone at night was wonderful.  

But for me, there was another side to it that I had struggled with for a long time. I couldn’t just live to go out and get pissed (aka drunk) anymore.  Or live for the weekend because that’s when the parties are.  After awhile, I just found that life exhausting and, well, shallow.  I just felt like I was treading water and not getting very far in life.  For some people, that makes them perfectly happy and alive.  To me, something was always missing; a sense of purpose, of direction, of fulfillment.    

I miss running in Hagley Park, going to Fat Eddy’s on Tuesday night’s (open mic...oh how I miss you), playing music with my co-workers (shout out to Rowan and Nathan, you guys are o for awesome), my piano, fishing, my tramping group, RATS (the rescue team), climbing with friends, eating at Helen’s bach and Mr. Dot Dot (the cat).  

In the last ten months I was there, I was ALL over the city, taking cooking classes, boxing, running, going out to the museums, seeing live music, hanging out in Lyttleton and Banks Peninsula, and  going out almost every night to something new.  I felt like a free bird, able to go out and do what I wanted, when I wanted and I lapped up every moment of it.  I danced around my apartment to my music and decorated the place entirely in pink (well not really but it felt like it). I really did love it there during those last few months; I finally made peace with my city and it opened up to me too.

Maybe I expect too much out of life, that I need a constant adventure. Maybe it’s too much to expect that being here  will give me that.  I know people say to help locally first.  Around me, I saw all kinds of people who were sad or struggling in Christchurch but you can’t help people who don’t want to be helped and there were all kinds of walls built up around them.  I just became frustrated and disillusioned after awhile.  It was depressing to see and soul destroying to stay.   

Here, any work I do is met with gratitude; everything I do seems to be a small improvement on what was before.  The relationships feel real; people look you in the eye when they speak and they share their stories openly and willingly, without mistrust or hiding.  They don’t “spin” the stories their way; they just tell it like it is.  The openness is wonderful. There is a positivity that radiates here…a hope for something better.

And I guess that is the reason I am here.  I hope for something better for myself too.   

*Names changed to protect the innocent and not so innocent.

Welkam!

After nine weeks of travelling, the adventure in the Solomons has finally begun. I left France, sad to see my father leave and a little scared about the next 72 hours ahead of me.  The flight to Dubai was elongated by two hours due to fog, leaving little time to scurry through duty free.

The trip to Australia was long and filled with turbulence fun.  The bathrooms were filled with people getting violently ill due to the shaking.  Now, I’m not a fan of turbulence but after being on the boat and on trains and having been, as my mother put it, “shakin like a bag of ze walnutz”, I was pretty immune. 

It’s always interesting who you meet on planes and I am one of those annoying people who like to talk, even briefly, with the people sitting next to me.  I figure, if you are going to share a cramped space for 14 hours, you should at least know the names of people around you. I sit next to a girl from York traveling to work on a cruise ship in Brisbane.  She is an interesting lady, working on the sound and lighting for the ship and we got on well.

I always pre-order the vegan meal on planes.  But I’m not vegan; I just got sick on a beef ravioli dish on a 14 hour flight from Sydney to Johannesburg ages ago. It was awful.  So I made up my mind to lessen my chances of getting meat based food poisoning again (yes, I know you can still get sick on veggies.)  The great thing about ordering a vegan meal is that it’s always very fresh, well made and you get it about a half an hour before everyone else does.

By the time I got to Brisbane, I was pretty wiped out; not entirely prepared for the next leg ahead of me.  I had heard bad things about Solomon Airlines (the Lonely Planet Guide called said it was in competition for being the most unreliable airline on the planet).  But I found this to not be the case at all.  The staff was very polite and the plane was clean.  It was another bumpy flight but by that time, turbulence just put me to sleep. 

The Henderson Airport is based on the old military base which was the basis for the Guadalcanal battles in World War 2.  I won’t get into yet (because there is so much other stuff to talk about right now, I leave that for a “Sara is bored and has nothing else to talk about” blog) but the World War 2 stuff is pretty fascinating.

As we fly into Honiara, I get a pretty good view of Guadalcanal.  It’s hilly and lush; jungle everywhere below lined with white sandy beaches.  Paradise.

The airport, again, was clean and tidy and immigration/customs were a breeze.  I know I was worried about the weight of my bag but because I checked it through Charles de Gaule, they didn’t weigh it or charge me extra!  Yay!  I didn’t have to wear all the extra panties after all (I did wear jeans under my dress for the duration of the flight just in case though).

I met a girl on the plane, Scarlett*.  She is friendly and lively; originally from the Philippines but living in Australia now (except when she works in the Solomons).  We click instantly and exchange email addresses, promising to catch up.

I get out of customs to four people waiting for me.  Three people from my host organisation present me a beautiful lei, welcoming me to the islands.

I’m exhausted, and they can tell, so they take me to the office quickly, give me a quick tour of everything and drop me off to my new home for a year.

When I arrive, it’s not at all what I was expecting.  I had really wanted a place where I could grow a little garden and maybe adopt a cat (sorry Mr. Dot Dot, you will always be the best cat in the world, but I have to move on too).  Instead, I got a very clean and tidy studio with a nice kitchen and a lovely warm shower. 

I put my suitcase down, took off my clothes, put the sheet over me and drifted immediately off to sleep.

When I woke up at 2 a.m., I couldn’t go back to sleep.  I looked around me, confused and not entirely sure I was ready for this experience.  I was frustrated that things hadn’t turned out as planned; I had planned the little garden in my head.  I had planned to bake, to decorate, to have a cat, to set down roots for awhile (something I’m not terribly good at but I’d like to try more of).  I thought I’d have a flatmate but instead I was living alone.  I started getting very nervous and wondering if I’d made the right decision all together.  I was looking at months of being alone, isolated and sad.

I flipped through the little introduction packet to the apartments, which are in Sanalae.  Sanalae means “for the time being”.  I can’t help but smile; the universe suddenly had just winked back at me. 

Then I started looking at the place from a totally different perspective.  It was a simple; I had someone to clean everyday so I didn’t have to worry about getting cockroaches or ants (as long as I clean up and store stuff in the small fridge).  I don’t have to worry about buying bedding, towels, dishes, cooking utensils; everything was provided.  I never had to worry about fixing my own toilet (which, I am awesome at due to some very fun times in Namibia..ah the ballcock…) or buying a light bulb.  Everything is easy; I guess I was expecting to have to work a little more.  I can’t believe I was disappointed about having to work less! 

My host organisation has kindly provided me with a driver, Lucas* for the weekend to take me around and after a delayed start, we head off to the central market.  The market is sprawling; under the huge covered structure are tables filled with fresh vegetable and tropical fruit, some of which I have never seen.  The prices are cheap so you don’t bargain in the Solomons. 

Tidy little piles or heaps of tomatoes, capsicum, peanuts, chillis, limes, mangos, bananas (of which there are over 30 kinds) and other items litter the tables with small signs that say “five dollars”.  At the front near the dock is the fish market, which I stay away from for now because I don’t yet know if I can handle gutting a fish in my apartment yet.  Bake good are also for sale, as are bottles of fresh coconut oil; some are fragranced with frangipani and roses to use as moisturizer for the skin and hair.  The market smells clean and fresh; unlike the souks in Fez. With the help of Lucas, I quickly navigate my way through buying a full bag of veggies for less than 50 dollars Solomons (about 10 dollars N.Z.)

I make my way to the supermarket to buy some rice, noodles and sauces.  This market, which has a great deal of Chinese food and some nice dusty bottles of capers, is clearly catering for expatriates, who are all around the island.  It’s incredibly expensive and I quickly spend 200 Solomon dollars (about 40) on two small bags of groceries.  In comparison, it’s clear that eating fresh, local food is the way to go here, which suits me perfectly.

Lucas takes me up to the U.S. World War Two memorial and we quickly discuss the war.  He says that the Solomon Islanders fought alongside the U.S. but wonders where their big memorial is. I agree.  The memorial gives a wonderful panoramic of Honiara.  Before I came here, people warned me that Honiara was not a beautiful city.  But I find the place captivating and real.  There is very little pretention here; people just get on with the art of living. 

The city is also very lush, like Hawaii and Samoa.  There are large tropical trees everywhere and the air is perfumed with frangipani.  Rhododendrons colour the streets with corals, rose and purples.  Lucas takes me on a tour of the botanic gardens.  There are paths along the way and we talk about living in the Solomons.  Lucas makes lots of references about the Solomons not being as nice and tidy as New Zealand; almost a little embarrassed.  But he has no reason to be; I’ve already fallen in love with Honiara, whether it’s like home or not.    

He takes me back to the hotel, where I take a nap.  I get woken up by my friend Scarlett, inviting me to dinner.  Less than 24 hours here and I already have an invitation to go out!  Scarlett and I agree to meet at 6:30 p.m. at the local market.  I take my first steps towards walking on my own in Honiara. 

As I walk down the hill, I realize that no one knows where I am.  That if I got picked up or taken, no one would know I was gone until the following day.  And it was getting dark.  I begin to panic as I walk; I completely disregarded all the rules about security in Honiara.  What was I thinking?  And what did I know about this Scarlett person anyway?  Was she going to sell me off into white slavery (Mom is forever cautioning me against being taken into white slavery).

I get down to the meeting point and meet up with Scarlett, who, as it turns out, isn’t going to sell me off into white slavery (at least yet).  Scarlett is loads of fun and we have a lovely Chinese dinner at a local place.  It’s not too expensive for two people (about N.Z. 40) and that includes the three Solomon Island beers.  Now, I’ve heard a lot of complaints about the beers, but it’s a nice fruity lager and I find it really drinkable (but hey, I don’t normally drink beer, so what do I know?).

I get a text message from another friend, Ally*, saying that there is a big party at the Kava Bar and to come down.  Scarlett decides not to come along but she helps me primp up for the big shindig and we talk for a long time.  Scarlett is a totally street tough lady and although she is younger than me by five years, I feel like she is slightly older by what she has seen and experienced.  I explain to her a bit about my life and the fun fact that I leave disasters in my wake.  She looks at me, a bit bemused and pronounces:

“You are shit magnet.” 

I laugh; she is right though, I am a bit of a shit magnet.

“But we can change that, first you got to change what’s in your head.  You worry too much, think too much.  You need to relax more and stop thinking that everything is going to go badly, because it’s hurting you.”

This is one of the fundamental problems of working in emergency management.  It’s my job to think everything is going to go to shit.  I always think about the worst possible outcome and try to figure out how I can deal with it.  Emergency managers aren’t the world’s biggest optimists; we can’t be.  So I’m pessimistic, sometimes overly so. 

To top that off, I work also in public relations, which is all about looking at risk and sorting out responses to those risks.  The loss of control of a situation frightens me; I like contingency plans on top of contingency plans. I do count the rows of seats to the exit and I don’t wear high heels on planes just in case.  And I DO worry far too much. 

Scarlett’s good for me already; she lightens me up and painted my nails to boot!

We head off to the Kava bar, which is pretty much a shack with some great lighting and fun people. I meet some great expats and dance the night away with my friend Ally.  She drops me home and I’m filled with a sense of peace and happiness; everything will be okay.

On Sunday, I get to go to the beach outside of Honiara. I am taken there by Petra*, a local staff member.  Petra is from Malita, which is a long island north of Guadalcanal.  Everyone here seems perfectly comfortable discussing the “tension”, which lasted from 1999 to 2003.  The tension was a period of violence between the Gwales, who are the local people of Guadacanal, and the rest of the Solomon Islands but predominately the Malitians. 

The Gwales consider Honiara their city and everyone is essentially squatting on their land.  After years of encroachment by other peoples, looking for urban opportunities like jobs and education, the Gwales armed themselves.  In response, so did the Malitians.  Now, I’m not going to make judgments here and clearly, the Solomon Islands, while being open about the experience, also want to move on.

In 2003, the Solomon Island government requested assistance to keep the peace from its neighbours.  Australia, New Zealand, Tonga and other pacific island nations answered the called and RAMSI, the peacekeeping mission was created.  Its worked pretty well in keeping the peace but some argue that its also created its own problems of financial inequality between the expatriots and locals.   

Occasionally there are still tension that arise. In 2006, after the election, there were large riots in Chinatown and many shops were burnt and destroyed.  Some say what started as an expression of frustration turned opportunistic too quickly.  Either way, it’s earned the Solomons a probably unfair reputation for instability.  The last election came and went without any real issues.

Anyway, I don’t want to wade too much into the political realm and I don’t have enough knowledge here to make any conclusions, so that’s all I really plan to talk about the political environment here in the Sols.

Petra takes me through Honiara.  Honiara is a north facing city; a small plain that quickly rising to hills and then valleys.  Approximately 50,000 people live here, so it’s not a large city but it’s the largest in the Solomons. 

A lot of people don’t like Honiara but I think it’s a nice city compared to what it could be.  You have to avoid the occasional beetle nut spittle on the sidewalk.  Beetle nut is a nut that has a stimulant and potentially hallucinogenic quality.  People chew the nut and put lime with the nut to give it more flavor.  The nut spittle has a red quality, turning people’s mouths bright orange and red.  There are large pools of spittle on the sidewalk in some places.

There are slums on the outskirts of the city and as we leave, one teenager throws a large coconut at the car until he sees the NGO sign on the vehicle and then looks embarrassed.

We cross over some bridges, some in fairly interesting states.  It rains a lot and heavily here, causing flash flooding.  This makes it difficult to maintain infrastructure; the islands aren’t use to the way we do things in the developed world and doesn’t think much of our structures. 

We arrive at Bonege beach; a popular beach amongst the RAMSI people for diving.  It costs 20 Solomons (about three n.z. dollars) to get in.  There, Petra and I take shelter under a grass hut and eat our salad. 

We munch on some salad I fixed up at the hotel.  The capsicum here is small, crunchy and almost has a chilli bite to it.  The tomatoes I bought are small too; little cherry tomatoes. With some lime juice and garlic, boom, a salad is born.  I may not be able to cook much, but salad I can do. Petra is very happy with it and ask me for the recipe.

Petra tells me of her family in Maliata.  On that island, people are either from the land or the sea, meaning that essentially the population is cut in half between farmers and fishing people.  Her mother was from the sea people and her father from the land people, making her a mixture of the two.  She lived with her mother on a small island off the coast.  She tells me that every day she had to take a boat to and from the island to go to school.

I take a quick break from the conversation and jump in the water.  Currently, my bathing suit top is experiencing difficulties (the straps keep snapping off which is really annoying) so I wear a tank top and shorts in the water.  Unfortunately, I had forgotten that I was wearing my dark grey and pink pokka dotta’d bra, which must have looked lovely under my newly soaked white tank top.  The RAMSI fellahs were all over the beach and I could hear excited talking, staring and a bit of snickering.  Great.  I’m in the country from less than 72 hours and I’m already the Bridget Jones of the Solomon Islands. Fantastic.

When I return, embarrassed and covering my top with my arms, Petra smiles broadly and laughs.  We sit and she continues her stories.

Her mother’s grandfather was a man who practiced kastam or custom.  This is a belief system based on the old ways of doing things and the belief in magick.  The system is based on gods; shark and crocodile gods (on land its snakes). 

She tells me that one day, there was a big storm and her canoe broke up on the rocks of the mainland as she was going to school.  She said that the group of cousins and siblings lost everything, clothes, food and books.  They had to make a decision to swim back the 500 metres back to the island.  As they were swimming, she said a large black shark, the largest she had ever seen (with a white belly) swam underneath the children.  She started to scream and cry, she was eight years old and terrified.  Her cousin told her:

“Look, he is helping us by pushing us forward.  He won’t hurt us, he is protecting us.”

Turns out, he was either right or the shark decided against munching on one of the kids.

The grandfather, who was taking care of the nets on the beach, saw the big shark fin out of the water.  He believed it was a warning and ran to the village to tell Petra’s mother to go to the other beach to check on the kids.  Sure enough, she found the kids in shock, sitting on the beach.

As soon as the grandfather heard about the kids being safe, he took a piglet out to the water, slit its throat and gave it to the shark as a gift.  Sharks apparently don’t attack often here and if they do, its seen as people having made bad calls in their life and the sharks are taking out natural retribution.

Petra drives me back to visit Ally’s house, which is situated on the hill.  I am sad to see Petra go; she is good company and I enjoy listening to her stories.

Ally’s house is a stark difference from the slums we have just driven through, with security gates and a treadmill.  Ally and I gossip, swim and sun ourselves.  I pick up some books in her library and we munch happily on barbeque flavoured crisps.  We catch up on how the other volunteers are doing throughout the islands; most of us on in the provinces, where power and packaged foods are luxuries.  One volunteer lives on an island by himself, in a hut on stilts looking out on the ocean.  He lives on solar power and fish from the sea.  It’s a simple life but apparently he loves it.      

I return to my little hotel room, relieved and grateful to have it; glad I don’t live in a grass hut. And after all even if it wasn’t what I expected, it’s Sanalae: just for the time being. 

*Names have been changed to protect my new found friends; I don’t want to piss them off already (although they all know about this blog anyway).

The End of the Journey and the Beginning of a New One

“Silent gratitude isn't much use to anyone.”

Gladys Browyn Stern

After nine weeks, my trip around the world is coming to its final destination: the Solomon Islands.  I'm a very excited to finally be coming to a place I can call home for a year and not live out of my suitcase.  It has been a wonderful journey, visiting with old friends and making some new ones.  A trip of a lifetime or in my case, this trip was my lifeline back to being me again.  I feel amazing, whole and completely happy.

This blog has been most therapeutic for me and someday, I'll sit down and read every one of them again.  For me, what I can also say is that, which each stop I felt lighter and happier. Some stops were rougher than others (Iceland, I'm looking at you) but I needed each destination to help me see things in a different light.  So yay!

You know, I have covered the following distances:

Distance traveled:

43, 521 KMS

or for you yankees thats 27,042 miles

I'd like to say that I'm awesome and I did this all on my own.  But I didn't; not even remotely.  So this is sort of the gratitude blog (those people who are searching for Nuns in Stilettos and Granny Panties can move on, because this might bore you).  Yes that is the most frequently used search terms to find my blog.  Hilarious.

So this is like my Oscar speech...its going to be long, tedious and only slightly interesting to those people whose name I mention.  I'm going to break it down by destination.

The Beginning of My Journey

Christchurch:  My thanks to Louise, my angel, David and Fiona for helping me with my apartment. To my Helens (Grant, Wilton, Moore) for holding my hands during rough times.  

Jon Mitch, thanks for looking after me and taking the hard line when I needed it.  To James and Janelle for always putting me in my place and helping me eliminate the "flapigator". To Bill, for helping arrange a very nice send off and being the inspiration to go to the Solomons.  Thank you Bill.  To Joanne, for designing the banner of this blog! THANK YOU!

To Katherine, for letting me go early on my last day and being a generally cool chick.  My thanks to Corinne for letting me share her space, both emotionally and physically.  My thanks to my whole comms team for helping me through all the scary, scary times.  My thanks to Sian for letting me know that everything was going to get better.  To the step kids (you know who you are) for listening and getting me drunk at the pub.

To Alistair for staying all afternoon at my farewell and getting me drunk (there are lot of people helping with getting me drunk...perhaps I shouldn't name them all.) To Murns for driving me to the airport and helping me dance the night away (you too Tipper). To Sam and Shane for looking after my papason chair; I hope you enjoy it as much as I have. Oh and thanks for listening too.

Daniel, for being such a good boss and always finding the solutions in life are in Northern Exposure episodes.  Many thanks, I hope I live up to being Maggie...To Matt for storing my stuff and letting me play guitar hero.  To Jamie for making me go out and eat Thai.  

To Gaynor for helping me notice that life wasn't ALL about me and that my friends need my support sometimes too.  Love you.  My thanks to all the members of the Red Socks Tramping Club, for some very good times.  

My thanks to the RATS team, for letting me sort my shit out.

My thanks to Antony for storing my stuff and looking after my mail. You are still a very nice ex, putting up with this blog and all.

My thanks to the Irish for letting me pirate all their stuff.  My thanks to Chloe bear for being the best climbing buddy/fishing buddy a girl could ask for.  My thanks to Scott for understanding that I am a free spirit and nothing can be done to change that.  My thanks to Jude for loving and taking care of Mr. Dot Dot.  Anyone else I've forgotten, I'm sorry.  Will re-edit this blog in necessary!!!

AUCKLAND- My thanks to Kiri BABE! who let me stay at her place, got me totally drunk and let me make drunk phone calls using her cellphone.  Many thanks Kiri Babe.

San Fran- My thanks and love to Tata Katie and Uncle Walter for letting me crash at their place. I was pretty shell shocked when I arrived; thank you for putting up with me just sitting there and not saying anything.  Thank you to Tina for an awesome time at the Winchester Mystery House.  See, ninja girls and pirate girls CAN get along.  Thank you to Vanilla Bear for taking care of Tina.  Thank you to Mr. Clark and Craig for letting me stay at their place and taking me to a classic Hawaiian themed diner.  Oh and watching the Sopranos on Craig's fainting couch...most fun!

Seattle- Thank you to my lovely cousin Amy, one of the busiest ladies I know, who took time to spend with me.  Again, sorry for being shell shocked, it was a lot to process!  Thank you to Eric and Nancy for feeding me.  Thanks to Megan and Jeff for helping us with directions and a nice steak.

Kennewick- Thanks to Chris and Michele and Mr. Vincent for loving me...you guys are so lovely.  Thanks Chris for making me laugh, Mr. Fat Fatty (Dr. Dada's words, not mine).  Thanks Michele for giving me the best nephew in the world (I'm not biased or anything).  Thank you to Amy Cherry for driving all the way from Portland to see me for two hours.  Wow.  (Mom, I know you are reading this and getting pissed off, just wait for it).
Tata Claudine for making a lovely lunch and reminding me of the excitement of self expression.

Cleveland-Thank you to Zoe and Vern for letting me stay with Mike; it was very nice to let you share him with me. Thank you Mike for letting me stay at the Church of Mike and enjoying Bedford.  It was a nice journey down Mainstreet America and fringe America, all at the same time.  Was also lovely sleeping under the dome.  Thank you.

New York- Katie Bear...wow...just LOVE you and taking me everywhere and letting me know that there was nothing to be afraid of (well not nothing) and holding my hand when I got drunk and cried on the subway all the way to Brooklyn from Manhattan.  Thank you.

Iceland-Thank you Helen for being the best trip organizer a girl could hope for.  Love you Wusband. Jessica for just asking me what I needed.  Daniel for reminding me that conversations with strangers could be interesting again and not tedious anymore.  The Canterbury Earthquake for reminding me that life moves on and people continue without me just fine.

Shrewsbury-Thanks to the Rev and the Revette for letting stay with them. I had a wonderful time.

Edinburgh-Okay, just a side note but THIS was my favorite place on the whole trip. It was love at first sight; I must live in Edinburgh someday, just because it makes me happy.  Anyway, back to the thank yous.
Thanks to Mae and Sarah for being good road trip buddies.  Christine and Eric putting up with my meltdown coming down off Ben Nevis.

Eddy for letting me stay at his place, taking me around, forcing me up Ben Nevis, letting me be mad at him and then sending all the stuff I left at his place to France.  Truly, you are an awesomely ruggedly handsome man Eddy. Here's to another 9 years of friendship.

London-To Annabel for being lovely, letting me stay in her bed  and looking after me around London.

Paris-Ah to Mom! Finally!!! Mom for helping me pay for this awesome trip, having a lovely time around Paris and enjoying the sights. Thank you!  No words can express my deep gratitude for my mother.

Auxerre- To Meadow for looking after my grandparents so well and loving my crazy family.  To Aunt Mirelle and Uncle Vincent for letting me stay at their place and use their interwebs. Thank you so much.  To Aunt Jocelyn for saying "You mustz love you firsts, Sarha, then you canz let love in for ze other people."  Truer words were never spoken.  To my cousin Julie, for showing me the beauty of new life.  To Frankie and Rena for showing me that cross cultural relationships can work.  Even the really tough ones.  To Aunt Francine and Uncle Christian for being excellent hosts.  For Tata Natalie for showing me the beauty in small things.

Paris again-To Dad, for being a counselor and friend.  For always taking the calm, loving path and reminding me of the importance of patience in all things, especially matters of the heart.  

Other Places: There are, of course, people who have helped me that I either haven't even met OR have helped from afar.  So thank you to Hannah, Melanie et all at VSA Wellington for getting me prepared on this trip. I have never felt so completely taken care of by one organisation...truly, it has been wonderful having you guys support me during this SCARY time.

Thank you to Steve at VSA Solomons for helping me not worry and just reminding that me, being there is the most important thing.

Ahhhhh...okay...I'm done.  That's my gratitude/Oscar speech.  I hope you somewhat enjoyed it...if not, go to the Cheese blog or the blog about Fez.  Those are both slightly more entertaining...I might add photos to spice up this blog...maybe some naked photos or something..maybe I need pictures of nuns in Stilettos...

C'est la vie

One thing I love about having a huge family are the family get togethers.  On Sunday, I had the pleasure of eating not with one or two but four of my aunties and one uncle (mom comes from a family of 10).  With them came the cousins, David and Brooke, Frankie and Rena (a lovely Nepalese family who married into one of THE funniest, craziest families on earth…I can’t help it, I was born into it) and of course Meme and Pepe.  All up we numbered about 22 souls, munching on French cheese, French apple pie (yum!) and a number of other French foods.

There was loud talking, hand gestures (the family IS half Italian, after all), laughing and general fun.  The French kiss…on the cheeks all the time.  This can be off-putting, perhaps, to someone who isn’t familiar with physical contact.  Men kiss men, women kiss women…it’s a whole cheek kissing orgy.  When I explain that kiwis don’t kiss on the cheeks and rarely hug, the French look at me aghast.   For them, physical contact is a must.  You don’t feel like you have been to France unless you have been kissed on both cheeks, hugged, had your cheek pinched (I have chubby cheeks, they can’t resist), and your bottom smacked, usually loudly and with a great deal of force.

I’ve really enjoyed bonding with my family, dusting off my poor French and learning a thing or two about where I come from.  Spending time with my grandparents is the best.  Pepe is still pretty sharp for 90, even though he spends most of his hours sleeping.  I think with Pepe, when he realized he couldn’t paint anymore, he just sort of gave up a little bit.  For Pepe, painting was his communication to the world; his source of his self expression.  When he lost that about five years ago, he just sort of retreated into his own world of tranquility and sleep.

I understand the importance of self expression.  Its one of the main reasons that I write this blog.  But also, one of my favorite outlets of self expression is through music, whether listening or playing it.  I really lost my love of playing music for about eight years and recently I got back into it.  I had always loved performing and got a chance to do it again recently at a talent night at work.  For me, it was something so small but so important to just get back out there and play in front of other people again, even if it wasn't very good.  It was just freeing to sing and play piano and generally make an ass of myself in front of other people.  It helped me connect with a part of myself that had long gone; sometimes things come back to you, even after a very long time.  It was like meeting up with your first love; awkward at first and then just happy because you can relish in the fact that somewhere, that part of you still exists under all the life experience. 

Meme, on the other hand, is very aware.  For her, self expression comes from…well expressing herself to other people through talking and sharing.  Meme is very much a social person; she loves having her huge, beautiful family around.  And she does have a beautiful family; each of the Petetin girls are stunners, beautiful and strong.  Meme says that my mother was like a little commandant with her sisters, always telling people what to do (you can tell she was destined to run her own business at a young age).  My aunt Katie, on the other hand, was the intellectual, a "very good, nice girl" Meme says and always trying to keep the peace.  Claudine, my oldest auntie, was calm and serene.  The list goes on...

In my family, women are the matriarchs, the power centre.  Meme and Mom and all the Petetin sisters are the movers and shakers in their own families.  The power of the women is very much evident here.  They get things going and organize.  It makes me feel embarrassed too; all the women here are super busy, amazing professionals but still find time to bake an amazing apple pie or go hunting for mushrooms (I love a good mushroom hunt myself) or tend to their garden.  It makes me feel slightly ashamed; I should have worked harder to be a good homemaker…instead I just didn’t invest myself in my home very much.  Something to learn when I settle in the Solomons.

Being in Auxerre is wonderful; it’s an ancient French city, with three huge cathedrals that grace the city’s skyline.  Dad and I visit the oldest cathedral, and for the first time, visit the crypts downstairs.  The old frescoes are amazing in colour and how long they have stayed vibrant; Jesus sits on top of his cloud, looking solemnly down.  The Four horses of the Apocalypse flanking him (I have been recently called one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse by my family due to disasters following in my wake).  Therefor I feel an natural affinity to the horsemen; nobody asked them to be death and destruction on earth; they just had a role to play.  I understand.

In the centre of the town is the old part; a completely medieval city perfectly intact.  We walk the cobblestone streets.  Autumn has come; I love the smell and sight of autumn in France.  The starting of the fires being lit in homes (yes they have open fires here and no, the French government is going to do anything about it).  Everything is about autumn food; stewed apples, grapes, sausages etc…it’s a lovely time of year to visit, it’s cozy.

My dad and I spend a lot of time walking and talking about life.  Dad is sort of my spiritual adviser; he has a gentle, soft approach to life.   He is more of a contemplator than a doer; my mom is a “go out and getz it done, even if you have no ideaz whatz you are doingz!”.  Dad is much more a planner, a thinker. 

I remember that I was really upset about something earlier this year, something someone had done to me (I can’t remember what it was) and my dad softly said “Everyone needs a justification.” Whether its family roots or blaming other people, no one likes to admit that they fucked up, that they have made mistakes.  I tend to do the same thing; I reference my family a lot in the blaming. 

So to answer my dad, I will say that in life, I have fucked up, made horrible choices and at times, been downright selfish.  No excuses, no one else to blame.  I’ve been the bad guy, I’ll admit to that.  Its freeing, in a way, to say yes I’ve been wrong.  But hopefully I’ve learned something for next time and I won't make the same errors twice...or in my case for the 20th time...Dad always says that what we resist persists, because we haven't learned the lesson yet. I hope I don't have to ever learn certain lessons again.

But generally my mood is super happy; am so ready to get going and head to the Solomons. So the last few days in France are spent contemplating the strike and whether there will be enough petrol to fly the plane (just received word…there is!).  And also how many pairs of underwear I can wear under my clothes into the Solomons.  You see, I’m only allowed 20 kilos before they charge me 13 Aus. more per kilo (eek!), so I’m going to do what we call “layering”.

 

I think it will go something like this: six pairs of underwear on…one pair of shorts, one pair of jeans, one dress over all…four bras on, one tank top, two tops, and a jacket (don’t worry, I’ll take photos). 

I’ll look like the Staypuff marshmallow girl…but I won’t have to pay as much (hey jeans weigh a lot…so does my fancy lacy granny panties!). 

Must be those Scottish roots that allows me to suffer to save a bob or two…either way, there is always some ancestry of mine to blame the way I am on!  Wait, didn’t I just say that I wasn’t going to blame my roots anymore?  God, navel gazing can get confusing…

The Cheese Blog

This blog is all about cheese.  If you don't like cheese, move along.  Also, I have a cold, so its not going to be as funny as usual; sorry.

Okay, I'm back in Auxerre, with my family.  I was going to visit my truly amazing cousin Celine but the train strike (damn you french workers and your silly belief in democracy!) has put a stop to that for now.  Its a pity; Celine is a freakin rock star and I was really looking forward to spending some time with her.

Anyway, on to the cheese...
France is a country that knows how to take care of the important things in life; wines, food, clothing and revolutions.  But, what the French do really well is make cheese.  No meal is complete without the cheese platter at the end.  Now, there are more than 400 varieties of cheeses in France; each region has its own distinct cheeses and is proud of them.

In Franche Comte, there are two especially good cheeses: canquiette (which comes in a tub and essentially liquid brie with garlic) and Comte, a hard cheese with a nutty flavour.  In Bourgogne, where my grandparents live, there are many, many types of cheeses.  This are is a big agricultural area and many of abbeys and nunnerys made money by making specialty cheeses.  This continues today.

Now, my mother took me to the super market with her and told me, "Sara, pick out ze three cheeses for ze family tonight...and make zem good ones!  I don't wantz you to embarrass yourself..."

Let me break it down for you re: the cheese shopping experience in France. There are ENTIRE rows of cheeses; there are more than 400 varieties now...the choices are...extreme.  There is no Tasty, Edam, Colby or Cheddar cheeses...its not like that.  Each one comes in its own unique packaging; wooden round boxes, glass or plastic casing.  And you have no idea what the cheeses actually are because my french ain't so hot right now.

I have to breathe deeply.  I consider my options.  Now, I love Epoisses, so I get a real old one.  Epoisses is a white cheese with an orange rind.  It smells vaguely like a sewer but tastes divine.  Its an old joke that you have to hold your nose when eating Epoisses.  So one down.

The second is a tub of canquiette from Franche Comte.  Its another safe choice.  The last one, however, I take a punt on.  There is a round cheese that has a somewhat orange rind made by monks in Bourgogne.  I figure monks who are distracted by silly things like women or society, surely will make an awesome cheese.

Nervously I hand my three cheeses to my mom.

"Hmmm...okay...not sure about the monk's cheese but lets give it a go."

We arrive at my grandparent's house.  I wait for dinner.  I watch them open up the package of cheese.  Picking out the right cheese is really important; people in France talk about cheese constantly (its sort of a national pastime).  Dinner finishes.  The knives come out.  The cheeses are unwrapped.  I look at my grandfather's face expectantly.  His eyebrows raises as he tries the monks cheese.

"Ummm...son bonne!"

Yay!  I find out later that he gets people to BUY him the cheese because he loves it so much.  I don't really care for the cheese myself  (its kind of weird; sort of like a bizarre mixture of creme frache and string cheese, not much taste) but he loves it.  I have passed an important family test.  Why this is extra important to me is that Pepe doesn't eat too much anymore; so to get him to eat a pretty large chunk of cheese is a HUGE accomplishment.

Its wonderful to be in France and discover interesting facts about yourself and your family.  I look through some old photographs and there is Primo, my great, great grandmother's first son (she was Italian).  Looking through all the baby photos, wedding photos, photos of family reunions.  I enjoy the photos of my grandfather caving, wearing his helmet, harness, ropes tied around his waist...reminds me of RATS (the rescue team I was a part of).  It's good to see where I get things from.

I also have enjoyed spending time with Meme, my grandmother, who has significant memory issues.  When I come to see her, she doesn't remember me being there the day before, so its like a whole new visit!  She is always thrilled and happy to see me.  I wonder if maybe there isn't an upside to the whole memory loss thing. If we treat people like its the first time we have seen them, maybe we would appreciate them more and make the time we have together that much more special...its just a thought...

Anyway, I have less than a week now until I get to the Solomons and I'm started to get very excited about my new life there.  I can't wait to start working, get my little garden set up and look after a little home again.

You know, its been a year since I separated from my husband.  During this year, I felt like I was in a war, mostly with myself.  There was a great deal of anger, guilt, loneliness, grief, longing, resentment and other emotional crap to wade through. This trip really saved me from becoming a bitter old woman and now I'm just a peaceful old woman.

Don't get me wrong; I would have been lost without my friends supporting me too but sometimes you just need to deal with yourself without leaning on anyone else for awhile.  I was hurting people caught in the cross fire of my emotional civil war; I clearly needed a break just to deal with myself.  I didn't realise how exhausted I was until I got on the plane; tiredness from more than three years of dealing with difficult things, trying to be strong and shouldering the responsibility for a lot of things.

Anyway, I've raised the white flag and called a truce with myself.  I've signed the peace treaty and both sides have put down their guns.

Maybe its because the cheese. Maybe its the travel. Either way, I feel like a whole new person; excited about the possibilities in life, forgiving myself and my past. I am looking forward to the future, excited by the possibilities of my life.

Even if its a future without much variety in cheeses...dammit.