How Sara got her groove back...Part Two: Jump!

The next day is a blur of food, snorkeling, hammocking and sleeping.  One of the big things about Maravagi is the hope of swimming with manta rays.  Maravagi is parallel to another large island and the current between the two is strong.  Nutrients from the sea are funneled in this tight spot and the mantas feed in this current.  Homer, Brianna and Alex chat with me and attempt to unravel the case of Sad Sara.

Each friend has their own way of tackling the problem.  Alex strokes his long reddish beard whilst being the best 500 team member a girl could as for.  Brianna takes the much more feminine approach, talking long walks with me and allowing me to vent. 

Homer however tackles this problem with action. 

The jetty I so fearful gazed down on becomes first priority.  After lunch one day, he takes me out and  throws his snorkel and mask into the water and takes a running jump.  I’ve never jumped off a pier or a jetty or whatever you call it.  I stand looking at the clear water some two metres below me.  I waver but I leap into nothing.

I make impact loudly and without much grace.  Plus I screamed all the way down.

Salt water splurts up my nose and stings my eyes.

 

“Homer, why do you make me do this stuff?”

“Because look at that smile on your face.  Crikey, that’s good stuff!”

I hate Australians.

Homer urges me to put my mask on immediately and I do so.  The huge school of reef fish moves in odd shapes below me.  The sandy bottom is clear of big reefs, except to the left and angles steeply down into the tropical blue.  Although life surrounds me I find it surprisingly calming to look out into the blue nothingness.  I take on the observer role again, swimming between large rocks covered in coral.  A set of clown fish try to attack me as I threaten their home.  I may be frightened of many things but I know I take Nemo.

Again, I jump into the water, this time, instead of falling without grace, I shuffle a good three steps first  before I leap.  Homer cheers me on and says he thinks I'm ready for the manta rays.  My stomach drops.  But I can't stop now; there is a big smile on my face for the first time in weeks.

One of the big things about Maravagi is the hope of swimming with manta rays.  Maravagi is parallel to another large island and the current between the two is strong.  Nutrients from the sea are funneled in this tight spot and the mantas feed in this current. 

The idea is this: a boat takes you out in the middle of this channel and drops you off.  You float in the sea until you get your full manta ray experience and the boat comes back to pick you up.   Sounds wonderful…and absolutely terrifying.

We plan to go in the afternoon.  I’m ready, I’ve got all my positive self talk in my head but it gets called off.  Now I have a full 24 hours to sit and think about stuff.  I find its better to jump and not have plenty of time to process things, now I'm stuck with time to kill.  Probably time to go back to the reef.

This time we go in the late afternoon as the sun is setting.  The fish are completely different this time of day.  The schools dart quickly and the lazy romantic setting changes to feeding time.  Everyone is on the look out for the bigger fish hunger for a bite.  Our friendly fish come out and nibble our feet.  I get the sense that this is not the best time to be swimming on the reef.  We head back quickly to the shallows and see a reef shark dart quickly out of it as we are coming in. 

The night is filled with laughter, Solbrew and friendship.  I feel really supported by this little family of friends. Alex strokes his ginger beard and reads the back of Solomon Times, a classic novel about living in the Solomons, in a variety of accents (the Scottish one was particularly good) that have the rest of us in stitches. 

The next day, another successful snorkel takes place.  When I get back to the lodge, I can’t hide anymore.  The manta rays trip is on.  The first trip out on the boat nothing is spotted.  My friends hop overboard and hang off a rope like lures behind the boat.  I decide to wait until mantas a spotted to get out.  The mantas are shy and we don’t see any. Everyone is disappointed but me.  We head back to shore for lunch.

The resort sends out a boat again in the afternoon with a stack of pikininis (children) piled on the front of the boat to spot the mantas.  The boat comes back quickly with the kids squealing in delight.  Mantas have been spotted and the group scrabbles for snorkels and fins. 

We pile into the boat and get ready for some serious underwater action.  Wait, that sounded slightly dirty...oh well...anyway, we scoured the surface until we saw a big brown blobby shape under the water.  I hear a splash behind me as the boat unloads its Australians.  I wait till the end, looking for Homer.  Homer promised to hold my hand during the swim (don't get excited Mom, Homer has a partner and one thousand children. It's a fact.) 

I flop out of the boat with the grace of one of those hippos from Disney's Fantasia without a tutu.  Here I am in the open ocean with no life vest...not even some floaties on my arms.  Great.

I clutch onto Homer like a koala bear.  He pries me off on and grabs my hand.  I put on my mask and get my first look at the ocean below.  Nothing but blue.  No bottom. 

I curl up into a little ball trying to be as small as possible.  I hold Homer's hand tighter than Kate Middleton's death grip on her father's hand when she walked down the aisle.  Fish are swimming below me at speed, fighting against the current that is now pushing me into shore.  I'm a bit relieved to be going to a place where I can see the bottom.  Then the current whips up strongly and I can't see anything below me at all.  Not even a fish. 

The current is so strong that even without any wind, white caps form at the top of the waves. 

My breathing speeds up and I hope the monsters of the deep can't hear my heart racing out of my chest.  This is by far the deepest water I've ever been in.  I relax after about five minutes but by that time we have missed the manta rays completely and are now being pushed far into shore.  The boat swings round for another pick up and we all climb in.  My entrance is by far less graceful than when I jump into the water with Will, a strapping Aussie lad hauling me up by the back of my board shorts.  

We turn around and start at the opening of the channel for another round of manta hunting.  Again I flop into the water, following Homer in.  I put on the mask and gaze into the blue world below.  Within two minutes, Homer squeezes my hand and points to the deep left in the water. 

There she is, gliding through the water.  Her wing span must have bee two meters (six feet for you yanks) and her large eyes gaze up at us.  For a moment she seems suspended in a place that has no current, no movement.  And then she picks up speed and is gone, ghosting past us into the deep.  I exhale, not realising that I had been holding my breath. 

And that was it.  That was all I got. 

It was spectacular. 

How Sara got her groove back...Part One

(Note: I will not be writing about the rest of my trip to Makira. It was a taxing but enjoyable trip but afterwards, I came down with a serious case of writers' block. Here is my attempt to get my writing groove back and share with you my wonderfuly, happy trip to Maravagi).

After returning to Makira, I was happy to spend some good old relaxing around the house and enjoying myself. However, peace simply would not find me. One morning, Priscella, my newly acquired chicken from the Weathercoast, decided that the laying boxes just weren't comfortable enough for her. She walked up the stairs whilst I was talking via Skype (I heart skype) in N.Z. And quickly walked down the hallway.

Not wanting to cut the conversation off, I let her roam around, thinking nothing of it. After the Skype conversation ended, I tried to find her. Not in the bathroom, so that left only one other place. My bedroom. I look around and there she is...sitting on my bed...no, wait...she actually is laying an egg...on my bed.

I am present for a chicken birth on my bed...I'm stunned and react quickly to try and get her off my bed. I know this sounds ungrateful to the beautiful gift of yummy goodness that Priscella is about to give me but I just can't stomach the idea of a home chicken birth on my bed. I make my move towards her and she squawks, angry at being disturbed. Feathers fly EVERYWHERE. She jumps on my digital piano and plays “Chicken dance” on the keys. There is more squawking and more feathers until finally, I grab her and put her out the front door. But she isn't done.

She comes back in (stupidly, I left the kitchen door open) and hops up on the kitchen table. I run downstairs and leap for her. She flys onto the kitchen bench and runs around, almost lighting herself on fire on the kitchen stove because Tessa is making espresso.

I grab her and she squawks loudly. We talk it out and she agrees to lays eggs outside. Until she stops laying at all. Sigh...my chickens are on strike...

Some other stuff happens in Honiara and I realise that I'm sort of over it. I'm tired; I haven't had a nice, good break from Honiara that was pure relaxation since February. And believe me, sometimes you just need a break from this city.

So when a couple of friends suggest a weekend's trip away to Maravaggi, I jump at it. Now, I didn't enjoy Maravaggi when I did a fly by visit there in February. It seemed dusty and run down and the hosts seemed unfriendly. But I am a big believer in giving people and places and experiences another chance. Recently, I even agreed to return to the Weathercoast...but I digress.

I pack up my now thoroughly travel tested bags and make my way to the yacht club one dismal looking Thursday morning. The weather didn't look nice but I didn't care. I was going to relax and unwind whether I wanted to or not.

Look, I'll be honest. The past four months haven't been sunshine and kittens; I've been through some rough stuff, both personally and professionally. I'm not pointing fingers, most of it I did to myself, which is the worst kind of suffering. There has been a distinct lack of...fun and swagger in my life. I needed to get my groove back and fast because no one wants to hang out with the girl from Sad Town. I didn't want to hang out with the girl from Sad Town and its pretty bad when you don't even want to hang out with yourself.

So, it rained. A lot. I listened to my MP3 player (thank you Henry Binns and Black Keys) and enjoyed the nice swell. I tried not to be miserable. I tried to enjoy it. I didn't enjoy it. But I survived it, like so many experiences I have lately, the best I can say is that I survived it.

But I wanted to do more than survive something so when the boat came up to jetty at Maravagi, I jumped out of the back torture device/transportation tool and jumped into the warm water of the Solomon Sea. With all my clothes on. In the rain.

My friends, thinking I had gone mad, shrugged and followed me in. We stayed, chatted and instantly bonded more than before. It was like a baptism, a new commitment to be better and challenge myself to not just experience but to enjoy. I would say yes to everything, even the stuff I didn't want to do. I committed to myself to enjoy the dry, dusty, unwelcoming Maravagi.

And enjoy I did...

The day was rainy...so I took a nap. I found that while I wanted to enjoy everything, I was deeply tired. So instead of a one hour nap, I slept for four. I woke up just in time for dinner to be served. I always order fish in the Solomons because...well its what they do best. Pork is pretty fatty and well I just like fish.

The two little reef fish look up at me, fried on the plate. I eat them, heads and all. Now, I know that eating fish heads is not everyone's cup of tea but I made a promise to myself that I would learn how. A lovely fellow taught me back in November how to do it and I've been rocking on it ever since. This fish is tasty and the food nice and basic. The host is still pretty unfriendly but everything is clean and tidy.

My bungalow faces out towards the ocean. Its a lovely room with three beds (I guess just in case). The only minor drawback is that the bungalow is shared, with only the barest of walls between myself and another guest. The other guest, who will remain nameless, was pretty good about my typical 2 a.m. wakeup time and any other noises I make. I, in turn, yell over the barrier at night to “turn over” when he is snoring.

In the morning, I wake up early. Like 5:30 a.m. Early. I sit and watch the sunrise. I yoga. I write in my journal. I think really deep thoughts. I do all kinds of terribly healthy stuff. I get bored waiting for the friends to wake up.

I walk over to the jetty and look down. The jetty is about two metres above the water and I look in, admiring the crystal clear quality of the water. A large school of reef fish permanently swarm around the jetty. I wonder what it would be like to jump in. I've never jumped off a jetty before. I chicken out.

To save a bit of cash, we self cater breakfast and then head off on our first snorkeling adventure. Maravagi is known for its beautiful reefs and my heart pounds slightly as I follow my mate Homer out of the shallows and to the edge of the reef. As we draw closer the reef takes on a much more multihued quality, leaving the brown and grays behind. Oranges, greens, and pinks come into view and brightly colour fish swim around in large schools. Little silver fish swim around me and when the sun hits the water, I fill like I entered an underwater disco.

And then, I spot it. The edge. Nothing but blue...and then...darkness. I look down and spot a reef shark hanging out below us. My first shark encounter. I marvel at how beautiful the animal is, perfect from 300 million years of evolution. The fish swim calmly around it; they know its not looking for a snack.

We hang out, fighting against the different currents for about two hours. I swim past the shelf and into the blue, trying my best not be terrified. Look, us yanks don't always have the best relationships with water. The ocean is where Jaws comes from, and stingy things that killed Steve Irwin. The sea is not my friend, it is a place to be feared. And yet with my recent dive training, I've come to try and make peace with the sea. So I try to float, live in the moment and enjoy.

It works, partially and by the time I sit on the white sandy beach, I feel a slight movement of energy, a wee glow of happiness inside.

I feel the groove starting to come back...

Magical Makira Part One: Shake your Kira Kira

After my adventures in the Weathercoast, I was keen for a couple of days in Honiara, enjoying my bed,  hot showers (well, mostly) and the wonders of electricity. 

My chickens, Henrietta and Priscilla, were nervous at first after their long and traumatic voyage.  At the bogan village, I thought I had lost one of the girls in a dog fight but she made it through just fine. 

I realized when I brought the chickens home that I know absolutely zero about raising chickens.  I vaguely remember something about needing a house, chicken wire and some sort of grit food.  No one told me that chickens can fly.  Over a fence.  Or two.  Or that they like to nest in papaya trees.  Or that when they are scared in the early morning from flying down off of said papaya tree that they make a huge racket. 

Every morning I go out and throw uncooked rice at them, like I am at a wedding.  Priscilla emerges quickly as the dominate one, pecking at Henrietta and stealing her food. 

Mackenzie helps me build a few laying boxes and we wait for several days to see what happens.  A week goes by.  Then one day Mackenzie brings me a small, white creamy egg.  Priscilla has finally come through.  I think there is nothing more thrilling than going into a laying box and seeing a perfectly shaped egg, just sitting there in the straw.  Or maybe I’ve become a boring person…

The week that I am back is really about recovering from my gauntlet of traveling through the Solomons.  Visiting three provinces in four weeks is pretty exhausting.  I simply come home and look for a place of peace and quiet to recover.  Of course there is the usual drama that comes from living in Casa Turchese but it all feels slightly removed from me now.  Spending hours on end in a banana boat has a wonderfully numbing effect and I seem to care less and less about the small things in life and more about the bigger questions.

Like why Henrietta is laying any eggs.

By the time two weeks are up, I feel pretty much rested and ready for the next adventure: Makira.

Okay, I’m going to be honest for a second.  I love Makira.  I puffy heart love Makira province.  I can’t help it.  Sure, it’s not as beautiful as Western Province or as majestic as Guadalcanal but its got something.  It’s got charisma. 

Makira has always played up to its friendly image.  That and the fact that they have more than 100 species of bananas.  Maybe 150 species.  Whatever, thats Makira’s claim to fame.  And Wogasia, of course.

Now, when I went to Wogasia, I was adopted into one of the main two tribes in Makira.  Now this gives me some amount of credibility throughout the province.  That and I can say hello and goodnight in their main language.  

Oh and Makira is pretty much the centre for earthquakes in the Sollies.  Good times!

I fly out of Honiara on Saturday, alone without a companion for the first time.  Obviously I’m nervous but my pidgeon tutor has finally said that I no longer need lessons; am officially fluent in pidgeon.  Setwan!

Like all airstrips, the Kira Kira airport is set just above the water so you don’t really know whether you are actually landing on land or in the sea.  It always make for a slightly tense moment, that and seeing that both tires on the plane are flat. As usual.

We land and chase off some big pigs off the runway.  I walk through the grassy airstrip to meet my team.  Jospehine, a good friend of mine, is there to greet me and ensure I settle in.  Josphine is the kind of woman that you love on sight; she is warm and kind and loves a good laugh.  When I ask her what I should bring from Honiara to give for her she has one simple request: bread.  There is no bread in Kira Kira.  I am humbled by this request; typically I ask for a bottle of my favorite Nando’s Peri Peri sauce or a single malt whiskey from Islay.   

I hand over the bread to Josephine, which she accepts with so much gratitude that I get embarrassed. 

I get a ride to Freshwind, the local guesthouse.  The Freshwind is a wonderful place to stay and definitely not your typical guesthouse.  It’s more like a backpackers, with individual rooms.  There is a clean shower with hot water and a working toilet.  Choice, bro!

The lounge room is clean, tidy and there is Sky TV.  The local RAMSI guys stay there and keep me company while I eat dinner.  The local matron cooks us a beautiful tuna steak with fresh veggies and rice.  Fab!

I go to bed early because I have an early boat ride in the morning.  I wake up at three a.m., as has become a habit of mine, on and off, during the last two years or so.  I watch some junk television and then manage to go to sleep again. 

I wake up to a beautiful morning in Kira Kira and I get a quick tour of the town, which has one main road that appears to snake throughout the small township.   The roads are typically bumpy, made out of dirt or old coral and varies in size.  There are a variety of permanent houses and leaf huts.  There is a small hospital with no doctor.  The provincial offices are small.  But Kira Kira has a lovely feel to it, relaxed and friendly.  Sure there are a few drunks but none of the crazies that roamed Lata or Honiara.  There are no bars and no restaurants but a few shack stores and some kai (food) bars are there.

It would be the last beautiful morning I would get. We take the truck down to the dock where our boat is waiting for us.  We opt for a different, larger boat than a banana boat.  It’s longer and larger than your typical banana boat.  There is no small cabin for luggage and no seats.  The boat is shaped like a ski and with it’s two engines, this baby is a lot faster than your typical banana boat.

I climb in and sit on a hard round pad with a big hole in the middle.  I’m told that it should take four hours to get to our destination.  Never believe a Solomon Islander when it comes to time frames and boats. 

As we make our way out to the other side of the island, it begins to rain hard, thick drops.  I put the rain jacket on over my life vest and listen to my music.  Makira, even in bad weather, is a stunning island, with large lush trees and ragged coastlines. 

After about three hours, we stop into some mangroves for a rest and a bathroom break.  The rain has gone and is replaced with a glaring, hot sun.  We decide to take a little detour over to Santa Catalina island, the place I went to for Wogasia.

The channel between mainland Makira and Santa Catalina is intimidating.  Large swells slow our progess to the island.  I’m happy to see the sunny little island that I called home during the Wogasia festival. 

When we stop there, I meet with another fellow attendee who stayed on to do some work with the festival for next year.  There, I also meet a French anthropologist who is possibly the most glamorous field worker I have seen.  She feeds us some lentil salad (LENTIL SALAD?? Where the frack did she get that?) and chats away with me in French. 

I think I didn’t fully appreciate what Wogasia actually was and how important culturally it is in the Solomon Islands.  It’s the only festival where spears are still involved or allowed but it’s more than just the spears.  It is the whole kastom festival that is so meaningful.  I invite the French anthropologist to dinner at my place to give a full accounting of it (she did her thesis on Wogasia) and will relay back to you, my faithful readers, what I can.

We leave Santa Catalina despite me wanting to stay and talk to my parents.  I am told we have another two or three hours to go.  So I hop into the boat and shortly I fall asleep with the large waves gently rocking me to sleep, hoping to get to our destination soon.

And now for something completely different…THE BIG DIVE

I return from my Weathercoast adventure completely exhausted. I’ve been away three weeks out of four and I’m tired. Beyond tired. The boat travel, sun burns, insect bites in places that one should not have insect bites, lack of food and water, heat, sleeping on the floor etc…has left me a bit depleted. I feel like I am at the trough of the wave that is the Solomon Islands experience. I know things will get better because a)things always get better and b) things will get better because I am no longer on the Weathercoast.

To make matters worse, I come home full of bad stories and I meet up with my friend Mark. Mark kindly pronounces that he got carjacked in PNG the week before and got chased down by men with shotguns. Mark always outstories me. I have come to hate Mark. Here is his story.

So, I’m taking a bit of a break (plus I am off to Makira tomorrow and I am going to ROCK Makira). My good friend Horatio, my former dive instructor, has kindly agreed to give me a bit of a break and blog on my behalf about his amazing dive of the U.S.S. Atlanta.

Thanks Horatio. I’m going to go take a nap now. Oh and the girls, Priscella and Henrietta are getting along fine; I ate some poached eggs this morning. Delicious!

The Big Dive


“Why don’t you write about your dive on my blog,” asks Sara at breakfast. Me, a guest blogger, I don’t even have Facebook (Editor’s Note: Good, don’t do it. I believe that Facebook is evil...) Nevertheless, I am up for anything and enjoy sharing my love of diving so why not. Maybe Sara will let me pick my own pen name, Horatio has a nice maritime sound to it.


(Editor’s Note: I’ve decided to let Horatio’s pen name stand. I think it sounds nice, hornblowing and all…)


The Ship


It’s huge, really, it’s enormous. The USS Atlanta saw very heavy action during the Guadalcanal Campaign of World War 2 (Editor’s Note: See the Wikipedia article on it here) and after suffering heavy damage was sunk by the Americans between Lunga and Point Cruz when it was unable to go any further. The loss of the Atlanta also represented the loss of 157 men. The Atlanta now lies on its port (left) side in 130 meters of water (Editor’s note: HOLY CRAP! YOU CRAZY B*STARDS ARE GOING TO DIVE THAT????) and presents a very demanding and technical dive.


The Divers (Editor’s comment: aka the Crazy B*stards)


It is a very small and prestigious club of divers that have visited the Atlanta. Current numbers stand at a total of around 20 divers (Editor’s note: More people have climbed Mt. Everest and K2. Just sayin’) that have made the descent down to her watery grave. On this dive, we have myself (now know as Horatio), Gabe (see previous blog) and Bob. We also have 4 dive buddies that are providing safety and backup both in the water and on the boat.


The Dive


Preparations for the dive start four days before when we start to get our gear and the gas we will be breathing ready or blended. On the bottom we will be breathing a mixture of only 8% oxygen, 80% Helium and 12% Nitrogen (Editor’s note: Am tempted to make gas jokes but will restrain myself). There are also other gas mixes that have to be made to complete the whole dive and we need to make sure that our gear is working and in perfect order.


We arrive at the Point Cruz Yacht Club at 8 am on the 13th June and meet our very excited backup team. We all load the boat with all our equipment as we joke with each other and then sit back while Bob briefs everyone on how things are going to happen. As the clock ticks by, the excitement is building very quickly to the point I can’t even sit still anymore and have to stand and pace about.


We board the dive boat and start the 10 minute trip out into Iron Bottom Sound to what is about to be the craziest dive I have ever done. Once over the wreck, we set up the deco station where we will be spending the best part of 2½ hours decompressing on our way back to the surface (EDITOR’S NOTE: HOLY CRAP!!! YOU ARE ALL INSANE!!!!). Each of us starts gearing up while dealing with our apprehension in our own way. Bob has done this dive several time before and seems very calm but for me and Gabe, this is the first time.


We roll off the boat into the water and the lads hand down all our extra dive tanks. We carry 5 in total with 3 more backups. Once the 3 of us are ready, we start what will be my longest descent yet. A little over 2 minutes later I can make out what I think is the bottom. I glance at my dive computer and it is telling me I am at 109 meters. OK I think to myself, I can see the bottom but cannot see the wreck and as I am the first one down, I will have to find it. I see a beam and start to follow it to what I believe will be the Atlanta.


As I swim along I look to my left and notice a ship’s funnel. Now that’s strange I think to myself. It is then that I realise that the “sea floor” that I am following is actually the ship’s hull (EDITOR’S NOTE: WHOA).


I drop over the side of the wreck to see what can only be described as the carnage of battle. This ship is a mess. I swim along the wreckage of the Atlanta and get to a depth of about 115 meters when my regulators start to fail due to the depth. I find I have to fight for each breath I take and the vibrations it is causing is shaking my whole body and the sound is deafening (Editor’s Note: I vaguely remember this from the movie the Abyss, when the Navy Seal guy went totally nutso. That movie, by the way, makes up the sum total of my deep water diving knowledge and about sea aliens thingys). This cannot be good at this depth.


Breathing is becoming more difficult and I have to continue to fight for each breath I take but this dive is just so awesome. I don’t want to leave, it’s only been 13 minutes and I want to stay longer. Everything about this ship is big and I am enjoying the dive and experiencing this very special place. At 103 meters, I make the decision that yes, things can get much worse than what they are and it is time for me to end this dive and start to make the long trip to the surface. I signal Bob and Gabe and move to the line and start moving up it.


The ascent does not bring any relief to my failing gear and I continue to get shaken violently and deafened by the noise it is creating. However, salvation is at hand. After drawing a final laboured breath from my gear, I am now at a depth where I can swap to a different gas, which also means correctly working gear (EDITOR’S NOTE: Phew! I was worried I might have to find someone else to have breakfast with from now on...)


The rest of dive was quite uneventful. The next two hours where spent at progressively shallower depths breathing different gases to try and rid our bodies of the excess nitrogen and helium that we breathed during the dive. Our final stop was at three meters where we spend just shy of 40 minutes. Different divers deal with decompression stops in their own ways, Bob for example went to sleep (EDITOR’S NOTE: Bob is such a bad ass), I removed my mask and let the warm tropical water wash over my face while I zoned out. Gabe sat there watch the world go by (EDITOR’S NOTE: Gabe often does this whether or not he is diving.)


In Summary


The USS Atlanta will go down as one of those special places in my heart, next to such places as Kranji and Everest (Editor’s Note: Horatio went to base camp…which is harder than anyone who hasn’t done can imagine. Horatio is a freakin’ rockstar). Training and experience helped keep fear turning to panic and I thank Bob for providing me with the training that prepared me for my Atlanta dive (Editor’s Note: I sense that Horatio practices this speech in front of the mirror when preparing to collect the diving Oscar award). Even now, writing this four days later, I am still on a high (Editor’s Note: this could be due to all the drugs that Horatio takes, but whatever, it’s cool).


Was it worth it? Every bone shaking moment. (Editor’s Note: I will NOT be doing it…breathe, Mom and Dad, breathe…)
Would I do it again? Already planning it (Editor’s note: this makes you an even crazier b*stard than I thought…I wonder if there is anyone else in Honiara I can have breakfast with…)

Village of the (Damned) Bogans

“If you are going through hell, keep going.”

-Winston Churchill

Our boat engine has died.  Again.  Now, Solomon Islanders are particularly stoic people; they go with the flow etc…but when something goes wrong…really wrong, they try to settle the score with God so things can go back to normal again. 

 “Confess! Someone needs to confess!!!!!” the Boat Driver yells.

I swallow.Confessing my sins in front of my coworkers is the last thing I want to do...

Before I left on my Temotu/Wogasia/Weathercoast trifecta adventures, my country manager tells me to confess my sins to the smallest child I can find to ensure good luck with boats.  I’m not entirely sure I feel comfortable with revealing my sins to a child, so I pass it off as a joke.  He says it makes sense because the child won’t remember and can’t tell anybody.

It all seemed very superstitious and mystical; to confess one’s sins just to make sure a boat engine works.  Now I begin to wonder if maybe there was something to it…   

A tropical depression hits the Weathercoast hard, while we are still on the boat.  The seas rise and massive waves are generated, slapping the coast and the hull of our boat.  Now would not be an ideal time for our engine to fail.  Which, of course, it does. 

The second boat comes around and it takes the entire crew’s strength to hold the two boats together long enough for Regan and me to safely cross over.  As soon as our bums hit the hard seats, I breathe out a sigh of relief. 

The boys quickly repair the engine (sea water keeps getting into the petrol tanks) and we are all motoring again.  Until the engine on the second boat fails and we have to make the cross again.  As the engine threatens to fail a third time, I am about ready to confess every single bad thing I’ve ever done to some flying fish or maybe my chickens.  I’m a fan of whatever gets the engine started again, silly traditions or not.

We finally make what can only be described as rough and/or suicidal landing on a rocky beach.  More cracks in the boat appear, especially in the hull.  But it doesn’t matter, I am back on dry land.

“That was a little rough,” the boat driver says.  No kidding.  The Solomon Islanders are the kings of understatement.

As soon as we arrive, the tropical depression decides we need some rain.  The rain falls in huge, vicious drops as we hike up to the next village.  By the time we arrive, we are soaked.  The village welcomes us quietly and seems to understand that it has not been an easy voyage for our team.  They give us hot drinks, food and leave us alone to our guesthouse, where we sleep.  The program is supposed to be at night but the tropical depression continues to batter to the coast.  The wind howls outside and the rain sounds like live ordinances hitting the roof.    

We make a break from the rest house in the evening to go and meet with the community at the church.  We sing songs and clap.  Despite the horrible weather, I find this village beautiful and wish I had more time there. The large immaculately kept lawns are circled by tall leaf houses.  The young chief looks after us all night, and ensures we have as pleasant of a stay as possible.    

We leave the village, anxious for the last day to be over.  The tropical depression has died down now and it leaves a lovely sunny day out on the water.  I figure the worst had passed.  I was wrong. 

***

I should have known that no travel experience is truly complete without running into a pack of bogans.

Now, my experience with bogans has been…checkered.  I mean, don’t get me wrong, some of my best friends are bogans.  As individuals, they are lovely, kind, good contributing members of society.  But get them together; add booze and/or drugs, and barbeque…suddenly the bogan tribe turns into an unmanageable group of hooligans crazies that engage in head butting, petty crimes and general mayhem. 

In New Zealand, I witnessed a number of fist fights and a general horrific disregard for other people in general at bogan parties.  I have had so many drunken conversations with at bogan parties where throwing myself at the burning embers of the barbeque seemed a sensible option to continuing any kind of dialogue.  The whole “I hate society and everybody in it” became taxing, especially when the bogans happily take advantage of things like electricity, running water (when there was such a thing in Christchurch) and transportation, without lifting a finger to contribute.  Ah the delusion of entitlement and “I’m going to blame someone else, it’s never my fault, it's all (society, parents, significant others, work, religion, politicians etc...) fault!” runneth strong with the bogans… 

The complete lack of empathy for others and arrogant entitlement really got to me.  It stills does, especially when I live in a developing country where even basic services are completely lacking.  And yet people carry on here and are pretty content with their lot in life…unlike the bogans I knew, who seemed deeply unhappy and angry.  It must be tiring carrying around all that anger all the time; I just couldn’t be bothered with it.

Anyway, bogan parties are not something I ever really want to go through again.  Which is why, of course, I meet the Solomon Island bogans…because that old adage does hold true: whatever you resist persists!

Our little bogan adventure begins on a beach, waiting for our broken down boat to return.  We wait for three hours on the beach during that time guys from the village come down to see us, drink Solbrew (the local beer) and then proceed to ignore us.  I ask for water and/or a coconut…some water comes several hours later; the men are too busy drinking to be bothered to look after the wellbeing of their guests.

Just as the boat finally makes it to the beach, the skies open up and pores down on us.  We hike through the rain to get to the village.

“You are going to be greeted by warriors,” I hear.

Great, I’ve heard that before.  But I enjoyed the experience in Temotu, despite getting grazed in the shoulder by a stray arrow.  I had a bad feeling about this.  

Bushes to the sides of me begin to move and shimmy.  Charcoal blackened faces begin to scream and a pack of wild men/boys jump out from their hiding places.  They are all completely drunk. 

They jump at us, brandishing weapons and wearing charcoal war paint.  The screams grow louder and louder.  There is hopping and screaming.  A club is repeatedly thumped on the ground around me.  Finally, a woman comes out and gives compensation to the warriors and we are promised safe passage.

We get to the village and the women are in full regalia, dancing their greeting.  It’s lovely and I really enjoy watching the dances BUT I’m soaked to the bone and would love to put on some dry clothes.  They wouldn’t let us for about three hours.  The partying had begun and no one could leave.

There was a stage with huge speakers and some mixers.  The speakers looked new, as did the generator that powered the whole set up.  A kind of Solomon Islands polka, with indecipherable words piped through speakers.  A gaggle of awkward looking boys hide behind the mixer, holding an IPOD.

The chief as drunk.  The M.C. was drunk.  The priests were drunk.  All the men in the village were drunk off their face. 

The evidence was mounting quickly. This village met most of the main criteria for being defined as bogans:

1.       Sound equipment (seriously, there were speakers seven feet tall with mixing boards) well beyond the financial means of any of the village members combined.  These guys would rather have access to an amazing sound system then have access to clean fresh water or toilets.

2     

All males were completely off their face drunk, including the chief and M.C.

3.       Women and children looked moderately frightened the whole time.

4.       Partying until way past daylight.

5.       Fist fights and large amounts of swearing and yelling broke out.

6.       So many beer cans were crushed and laid lying around that we could have built a Toyota Hilux out of the recycled cans.

7.       Large amounts of pot and/or beetlenut were consumed.

8.       Locks on the INSIDE of doors for BEDROOMS.  Most villages don’t have doors for bedrooms let alone locks. 

  Wives and children bear the brunt of the party; kids can’t sleep due to the loud music and when any woman says anything about it, she gets a quick smack and is taken out behind her house for a full on beating.

A fight breaks out over a woman and a hilarious drunken exchange occurs that went something like this:

“Fuk’em ui!”

“No! Fuk’em ui!!!”

“No!!!! Fuk’em ui!!!”

And it goes on and on until I hear some punches being thrown behind a house.  The chief comes out, still drunk, yells at the boys.  Compensation must be paid immediately to the tune of a pig and 200 dollars.  The pig is slaughtered immediately.

I watch from the safety of the balcony and no one notices me until the boys downstairs start talking about hanging up the “misses” (term for white women, which means me) like a pig and taking her.  I’m not sure what they mean by “taking” me but I have suddenly flashbacks of Deliverance. I quickly walk away from the balcony and lock the door from the inside.

***

The music is so loud that I can still hear it clearly despite the speakers being almost a kilometer away and having ear plugs in. The music is the same ten songs repeated over and over again.  I assume it was ten songs, honestly it sounded so similar to each other that it might have been one song.


While this would be merely annoying in N.Z., you could at least call the cops or noise control for assistance to deal with these guys.  Or send some big fellah next door to threaten to smash heads in.  No such luck here.  My cellphone doesn't work here, there are no cops anywhere.  This place is the definition of lawless.  When one woman publicly announces that before my organisation's project, women were beaten and killed because the lack of a certain resource, I feel...slightly concerned about my safety in this village.  

It is impossible to get any sleep.  Regan and I are freezing because all our clothes are wet and we weren’t offered a blanket of any kind.  Our hostess is trying to get her two year old to sleep and doesn’t have time to look after us.   

I try to be calm.  I try to go through my personal spiritual philosophies.  I go through every spiritual belief I know to try and have empathy and love for the people outside.  I am love and loving.  Everyone is part of the universal subconscious. We are all interconnected spiritual beings. I take deep breathes.  I count to 100.  I think of a stone cottage in winter, calm under a blanket of snow.  I sing “I am a Child of God” to remember that we are all children of God. 

Nothing works.  I still hate this f*cking village with all my heart.  Well specifically the men, the women seem to be okay, the children seem to live in a constant state of fear.

As crates of expensive Solbrew come in, I finally realize that I'm really angry.  I mean, what is the point in doing any kind of development work here if people prioritize getting pissed over having access to clean water?  Or having an education? Or looking after their own kids to make sure they are healthy and make it past the age of five? 


ARGHGHGHGHGHGHGH!!!!

Emotionally, I’m a wreck and I mentally write my own resignation letter out several times.  I question development as a whole and what my part is in it.  I suppose everyone needs that moment, where things are less fun, less novel and just scary or demoralizing. 

With the combination of bad boat rides, tropical cyclones, chickens, little food, sleeping on floors, no electricity or access to a hot shower...I face my first full on meltdown.  This was my "I'm completely disillusioned" moment.

The next morning we are continually delayed by the village elders because they are too hungover to say goodbye and by this time, our last day out in the Weathercoast, I am officially done.  Regan and I put on the only moderate set of dry clothes we posses.  However, as we leave, the chief finds it great fun to splash water all over us from the river, the muddy pond and finally the sea.  I’m about to have a serious freak out but I breathe and know that this too shall pass. 

I am so happy when we clear the bay, I give a shout out for joy.  Regan laughs and shouts with me; she hated the village too. The staff look rough and even they seem a bit shell shocked by the whole experience.  We all look like we have seen better days. 

***

The water is a lake, calm and smooth.  We have to take rest at a bay some 45 minutes from the last village and at least another three hours in the boat back to Honiara.  I don’t care; I’m out of the bogan village.

 As we round the point, the water seems to look clearer; suddenly, white sandy beaches appear.  The black sands of the Weathercoast are gone.  Reefs populated with fish appear underneath us.  As we stop into a protected inlet, I feel I have arrived in my own personal paradise.  It is quiet.  There are no people, no guest houses.  The sand is a warm golden colour and powdery and I sit down enjoying the sun.  I get a little nap to make up for the lack of sleep from Bogan Village. 

We eat some roast pig and I feed my chickens some greasy pig fat.  I decide not to feed them chicken because it’s just to Silence of the Chickens for me.  I feed some of the fish pig fat as well and we all wait for the second boat to arrive.  For another four hours.  But arrive it eventually does; we climb on board and make our way to Honiara. 

The water is pretty smooth until we see Savo and then it chops up.  I didn’t think I would get off that easy.  There are so many thumps and ups and downs I feel like I need an ass transplant.

When we finally get to Yacht Club, I am ready for a long hot shower and my comfy bed, having slept on woven mats for seven days. 

The program manager says that he hopes I like the Weathercoast because I am going back there in September.  For up to two weeks.

I grab my chicken Pricilla and, gently caressing her head, I begin to confess my sins.

(Editor's Note: I just want to say how grateful I am to the staff for getting me around the Weathercoast in one piece.  The development workers in the Solomons operate in very rough conditions and I appreciate the work they do.  I am eternally honoured for the opportunity to have been to the Weathercoast, despite the many hilarious mishaps and bogan run ins.  Thank you!) 

Chicken Run

After going to the three previous villages, I gotta be honest; I wasn’t impressed with anything about the Weathercoast.  The villagers seemed unwelcoming, the seas were rough, the food was poor and I was generally still in a grumpy mood.

The travel is adventurous in the banana boat.  Our engine dies multiple times mid journey and we have to push the two small boats together and move to the boat that has a working engine.  In high seas.  It is loads of fun.  Also, in the morning, the boat driver tells me that there is a large crack in the hull, right down the centre part of keel.  But don’t worry, it was patched up last night and should work fine.  I ask if we should wait for the patch to set longer and if it will work.  He shrugs and says we should just give it go.  The prospect of the boat cracking in half is not a fun for me and I cringe as we start slapping the waves heavily.  But the patch holds.

One of our crew members gets terribly sick; I think this is the first time I’ve even heard of a Solomon Islander getting sea sick.  The whole trip starts to have very much a “three hour” tour to it and I wonder if I can build a coconut phone.

By the time we Iand on the beach at village four, I was ready to march across the mountains back to Honiara.  But then the pleasant sway of the palm trees and the tranquility of the fourth village took hold and I felt oddly…peaceful.  The village was set up about 500 metres from the sea, on black rock cliffs.  The settlement was neat, clean and the people were friendly.

I turn to Regan and say,

“I think this is my favorite village.”

She laughs.  We are greeted by a local woman who takes up back to her house.  Her leaf house hugs nicely near the cliffs and is tall.  We climb the half hazardly nailed together ladder/stair case up to her home.  The floor is made up of flexible wooden slats painted black.  There are large spaces between the slats where I can see the rocks, some 3 metres below. The house is clean, with large tropical print pieces of fabric to give privacy.   

Jenny, the owner of the house, has become our village girlfriend.  I always ask for a female caretaker in the village because each village has its own unique set of kastom or laws.  There are tabu (forbidden) areas to women and to men, certain clothes or modesty must be observed.  Melanisia is a land of diversity so even locals won’t know all the customs in every village.  It would take many, many lifetimes to understand fully each and every village’s customs.

Jenny turns out to be a superb girlfriend.  She takes us down to the large river for a bath.   Regan jumps into 

the water from a large rock, fully clothed.  I take off my clothes and wrap myself in a lava lava.  For the first time in awhile, I bath completely in fresh, cool water of a river.  The swimming hole is large and filled with colourful river fish. 

I feel reborn in the crystal clear waters of the river and swim around the rocks and deep pools.  I open my mouth to drink the water and stop just in time to see a large black pig covered in mud crossing the river 300 metres upstream.  He stops and watches us for a second, plops down in the water, gives himself a good dousing to clear off the mud and then trots off. 

“See, we all share the river,” laughs Jenny. 

Great.  I probably will end up with pig itch or something.

The villagers give us plenty of time to rest and relax.  I sit up and talk story with everyone; the projects we have put in have made a real difference to their lives, they say.  But this is a village divided; there are two large churches on opposite sides of the village, of the same denomination no less.   A new young chief has just been chosen and everyone is trying to work together. 

The chief system in the Solomons is based on dominance rather than by birthright, like in Polynesia.  A “big man” rises every generation and is chosen by his village through a variety of methods.  This makes for a dynamic changing environment in villages and the Big Man set up can just as often lead to violence as it leads to peace.

Village politics are rife with petty jealousies, rivalry, manipulation and deception.  Not unlike politics everywhere else on earth.  In a way, the Melanesian political structure reflects modern democracy; villagers empower chiefs and, in turn, chiefs must be responsive to the needs of the village.  If he is not, typically he is removed quickly.  There is usually a council of elderly men and women to assist with governance. 

One unexpected aspect of churches is the rise of bureaucracy in villages.  Every village visit we go to has a programme with official speakers, including chiefs but also heads of community committees, like literacy or education committees or water committees.  Minutes are taken and given to us.  It strikes me as being incredibly official and probably very inefficient.  Because this type of bureaucracy was put upon the people, the people speak the words and have the structure but have no idea what it actually means.  The original village set up, with the council of elders both women and men, seem much more logical than modern committees.

There is a noticeable lack of garbage in this village.  Disposable packaging is the bane of island life; there is no recycling programs to get rid of cans or bottles or plastics.  Plastics and rubbish litter Honiara streets.  I can understand where the mentality regarding rubbish comes from here.  Most people are used to purely organic food; when you finish a coconut, you throw it over your shoulder and it rots happily away.  Now with the invention of tinned foods, packaged biscuits and all other manner of plastic crap, the islands here are starting to get rubbish filled.  Then the difference strikes me; this village has no store so people can’t purchase needless crap. 

As the day wears on, we are well fed and looked after.  For the first night in four days, I sleep peacefully in the little hut on high stilts. 

I wake up, as usual, to the sound of chickens.  I go outside on the balcony and watch the women dutifully pick up all the errant leaves from the ground.  I notice this in the Weathercoast; the women pick up the leaves by hand to ensure their village is a tidy place.

After another quick dip in the river, which is thankfully pig free, the village starts with their handover program.  The women line up and begin to sing us songs about the project and about God.  Now, Solomon Islands are born with naturally beautiful voices. Give them any song and they will have it arranged in four part harmony within a matter of minutes.

It’s a beautiful and idyllic island scene: flowers are strewn everywhere and we are given flower wreaths to wear.  The village chief presents us with a gift, an offering from the village.     Heaps of sweet potato, taro and other root veggies were piled high around a pole.  And then there were the chickens…to be precise four young chickens were tied up to the side of the pole, lying calmly.  Two young roosters and two small hens. 

Chickens.  As gifts.  Who knew?

We also receive some shell money, which are strings of tied up shells used as, well, money.  Shell money is typically used only for ceremonial purposes now; mostly for bride prices, cases of compensation (when an individual has wronged someone else and needs to make a payment) and as gifts. 

Afterwards, a huge feast is laid out before us.  We sit and munch on a cake made of rice and fried onions (which is surprisingly good), fish curry and other local delicacies. 

As I drink a fresh coconut and sit on some large rounded stones used as seats, I find myself completely relaxed.  I could stay here forever, hanging with the friendly villagers and swimming in the river.  But we can’t; it’s time to go. I grab the chickens, who aren’t terribly impressed.  I talk to them and quickly give them the name of Pricilla and Henrietta. 

Pretty soon, it becomes clear that the chickens and I have bonded and I decide to keep them as pets.  I figure this kills two birds with one stone, literally; I have a poached egg addiction that must be fed several times a week.  Eggs are expensive in Honiara, and, as a volunteer, I am always looking for ways to save money. 

I think to myself what all prospective parents tell themselves: what can be so hard about this?