The Call

(The Stilettos in the Solomons blog took a six week break while I flew home to Christchurch to assist with the earthquake.  Sorry I was rather busy at that time; too busy to blog!  However, the following three blogs are about my experience there and will be posted in rapid succession.  I decided to post in three separate blogs because it was just too lengthy as one blog!) 

On a hot, sunny day I arrive back from lunch to my desk, typing up a farewell letter to my old boss, John.  Johnis retiring on Friday and I want to write him a blatantly honest, funny and kind letter of farewell.   As I write, small tears come to my eyes as I think of John with such fondness and wonder to myself when I would see him next.  I press send.

It is 22 February, 2011.  I arrived here in the Solomon Islands exactly four months ago to the day, wide eyed; travel worn and ready for a new adventure.  The Solomon Islands had not disappointed; I had a new life with a new home, new friends, sexy stuff was going on in my personal life and a new job.  I was rocking on in my real life.

The happy little life that had bloomed around me was about to change. 

A text message comes through on my phone.  It is from Peter, the volunteer wrangler.  Christchurch has had a big earthquake, fatalities reported, widespread damage throughout the city.  I’m in shock; of course this happened before but I don’t want to believe it.  I go online, see the damage.  The cathedral in rubble, people gathered in Hagley Park.  I feel, as I did last time, powerless to do anything to help.

I watch the news. I don’t sleep much that night, wondering if I should go home.

The next day I can barely concentrate on work.  I snap at a coworker. All my friends are accounted for, except some colleagues at CTV and one acquaintance at the Christchurch City Council had been killed, but I feel like I need to do something. Emergency management in Canterbury was what I did for so many years; I felt like such a waste by not going.

I stay at a friend’s house that night.  We talk till late, considering all the options.  Finally, I call it a night and say to myself that by the next morning, I will know what to do. 

I wake up and the first sentence that pops into my head is:

“I’m going back to Christchurch and I need to be there by Tuesday morning.”

With the decision made, I promptly go to my office and tell my bosses.  They agree.  I book my ticket.  I feel a bid mad; I haven’t been asked to go back and I wonder if I am really needed.  But the decision has been made.  I will be flying out on Sunday, it is Thursday evening.

My mobile rings and John is on the other line. 

“Come on, then.  I know you want to come back.  But you need to be here by Tuesday morning.”

I smile.

“John, I already knew you were going to say that.”

I could hear him laugh on the other end, slightly confused. I tell him goodbye and that I will see him on Tuesday. I hang up the phone.    

It’s strange what your mind focuses on in times like this.  For instance, on Friday I look at my volunteer wear, knowing that it won’t cut the mustard even in a disaster.  Christchurch will be significantly cooler than the Solomons and I would need to get clothes from storage.

I text my friend Daphne, explaining what is going on.  She agrees to meet me that afternoon.  We head to XJ6, perhaps the best place to shop for clothes in the Solomons.  We buy a selection of business type clothes quickly.  The Solomon Islanders look bemused at us as we try to search out the warmest clothes.   I am still amazed at the designer wear you can find at the second hand shops here. I leave with a Witchery dress, sass and bide, and a little Trealise Cooper number. Afterwards, we stop by the Lime Lounge for a lovely lunch. 

The Lime Lounge and Bamboo Bar are the only places that resemble a proper café back home, which is why it is popular with expats.  I look around the restaurant with envy at the aussies and other expats; their homes weren’t lying in rubble. 

For months I had been fantasizing about my return to Christchurch.  I longed for a cocktail at Fat Eddy’s on open mic night or to go climbing at the YMCA with my friends.  I wanted to go to the Knox Church on Sunday and have Eggs Benedict at Vic’s Café on Sunday, chatting away with my best mate, Helen.  I wanted to buy Epoisse at the Cheese Mongers and jog through Hagley Park in the morning.  In the Solomons, there are only a handful of eateries and bars that are acceptable for me to go to.  I dreamed of my home, knowing that the places I loved were either gone or going to take a long time to rebuild.

On Friday night, Tessa throws me a farewell dinner.  I look around the table at my nine good friends, all beautiful and interesting people.  All people I care about.  All people I didn’t know until three months ago.  Now I wonder how I could go this long without knowing them.  I don’t know how long I will be away or what it will be like when I return.

Life isn’t without irony as on Saturday morning, my things finally arrive from Christchurch.  Peter comes early 

to Casa Turchese, large boxes in tow. My Korg piano, my clothes, my books…my things.  I look at the boxes and it seems like a mad person packed them, just sticking all kinds of stuff inside the box.  The knot in my stomach tenses up; what if I feel the same when I return?  I paid for the tickets, I had to go.  And I felt I was needed.  It was time to return to the city and face what I had been running from. 

We go to the beach on Saturday; I take one final snorkel around, enjoying the warmth and the beautiful marine life.  I sit on the white sandy beach, soaking in the sun.

At the airport, I spot Stan, who has just returned from Perth.  We exchange a quick hug before I board the plane.

I stop over in Brisbane for one night.  The experience was jarring; the streets were clean and no one was walking anywhere.  There wasn’t piles of rubbish around.  No birth defects that hadn’t been cured; in fact I would be pressed to find one person without a hair perfectly in place.    

My lovely host drives me to the nearest mall to pick up a pair of boots, a new purse and some stockings. The couple I stay with are lovely; he is a brother of a friend, who was kind enough to take a wayward, anti establishment, environmentalist, raving volunteer hippy like myself in.  Of course I spent hours boring them with talk of western materialism and how silly people in developed countries are, caring only about their flat screen televisions, xboxes, sport and other things that typically don't matter in comparison to family, protected environments and wontok. I felt we had become a society based on entertainment; all the other stuff like access to healthcare, food, electricity, education, and infrastructure were already taken care of, so life could just be about entertainment and the pursuit of personal happiness at the expense of everything else.

Yep, probably should have just kept my mouth shut on that one; it probably made me sound supremely ungrateful.  Which I wasn’t.  (And it makes me sound supremely up myself and thinking that I'm better than everyone else.  Which I'm not.  Okay, well maybe a little; hey I got an ego just like everybody else! I'm not perfect!!!)

I jetted off easily to Christchurch the next morning, not sure what to expect.   When I arrived off the plane, I found a much changed city.

(To be continued...)

Short Dispatch From Christchurch

Well my Solomon Islands journey has taken a quick or not so quick detour to assist with the Christchurch Earthquake.  Am heading back shortly to the Solomons to regroup and relax on its warm shores. 

Before I left this city in August, I felt a deep resentment at times for being here.  I wanted nothing more than to flee the city at speed, disliking the bogans and all the bull that comes with the city.  But now, my heart is aflame for this city; I love it in a way that I have never before.  I have made peace with this place.  I have made heaps of new friends and new relationships.  It is a new era of love and happiness for me and this beautiful city on the South Island. 

I feel like I have finally come into my own professional and personal self, my planning and old work appreciated and my new work.  I cannot express how fulfilled I feel and how happy I am to have been here to help the city and people that I deeply love. 

Am sorry to all those who I haven't been in contact with.  When you are working long days, life takes a very different rhythm. The earthquake swallowed me up and I was happy to work hard. 

I look forward to returning, perhaps sooner rather than later, perhaps to settle or perhaps to simply help rebuild. 

Love you much, Christchurch.  See you soon, Solomons.

Solomon Islands Recipe of the Week: Marco's Tuna Carpaccio

My wonderfully fun and weird Italian housemate, Marco, has left to return back to his city of origin or, as he likes to say, "Rome, Sweet, Rome".  So in honour of his leaving, I have decided to post his famous recipe for tuna carpaccio.

Now tuna is that main fish here in the Sollies.  I could wax lyrically about all the things that one can do with tuna and I might, maybe if you are nice to me, post my tuna fish stock, pasta, steak, soup, salad, jam and chutney recipes.  Maybe.  If you are nice to me...

Anyway, first off, buy one really fresh tuna.  Don't live where you can get fresh tuna?  Too bad! You live in a bad place then because fresh tuna really is one of the great joys in life; like fresh coconut water, there is no substitute.  I suppose you could use salmon, Kiwis and Pacific Northwesters...oh and you scottish folk as well...but seriously, tuna is where its at.

So here is the recipe:

• One tropical paradise that has a plethora (I love that word, don't you?) of fresh tuna.
• Gut the tuna.  Remove the skin, fillet and cut the fillet into small, flat pieces.
• Place the pieces of tuna flat on a flat tray that is at least 2 or 3 centimeters deep.  
• Cover the fish pieces in olive oil (extra virgin) and lime or lemon juice.  Add spring onions and capers if you like.  Add some salt to compensate for the bitterness of the lime juice.
• Put in the refrigerator.
• Now, the tuna will turn from a pinkish colour to a nice gray colour because the acid in the lime is kinda cooking the fish.  Kinda.  Its a chemistry thing.
• Eat after one or two hours.  Preferably with a nice white wine.  And some italians...I mean, not to eat of course, but just to hang out with and tell you interesting stories about owning a monkey, being attacked by pirates, seducing innocent peace corp volunteers and having an ex brother in law who owns a castle. Someone like that...   

There you go.  Come over to my house; I now know how to make it, so Marco is no longer required.  Although we will miss him.

Ciao Marco and bon voyage (he's half french, ya know, so I can still use french words.  Plus it sounds cooler in french than italian.  It's a scientific fact...)

Lukim ui,

S

In the dark...

When I packed my little suitcase in August, I had nine weeks of traveling to get through before coming to the Solomon Islands, so I brought a wide variety of clothes with me. Now, those clothes are tattered, stained and, well, downright frumpy.

So after six months of living with the same wardrobe, I broke down and decided I needed a major overhaul in my look.  The main problem is that here in the Solomons, clothes shopping, like food shopping, is not an easy task. 

First off, there aren’t really any new clothes shops.  There are a few tourist shops you can buy new clothes in but these are expensive and kinda tacky island gear.

However, the Sollies has a wide variety of “kalico” (or clothes) shops.  These shops sell second hand clothes donated by Australia and New Zealand.  So kiwis, when you put your used shirts and skirts in those big clothing bins, a lot of times, it ends up here.

After a complete wardrobe meltdown, where I threw everything out of my closet and on to my bed just to find something suitable for work on Tuesday, I realized it was time to take the plunge and get me some clothes. 

With that in mind, on Wednesday, my wonderful, ever patient colleague Tina took me kalico shopping for the first time.   Fashion here in the Sollies varies widely.  One of the best parts of the clothing here is the unintentional hilarity of locals wearing kitsch or hipster shirts that say things like “Best Grand Dad in the World”, when the guy wearing it is clearly under the age of 30.  Or the classic 60s Batman t-shirts worn by a mother holding a child, that would certainly go for a high price back home.  “Make love, not babies” was a controversial shirt worn by one fellow, and Iron Maiden concert t-shirts are everywhere (Helen, that one is for you!).

The professional women all wear skirts; slacks are not common.  Typically, there is sometimes a floral print; often there are two different floral prints warn at once with no matching colours.  Walking down the street, the foot wear is clearly jandals/thongs/flip flogs/slippers.  Closed shoes are a no no unless you are stuck in an office.   

Anyway, Tina held my hand and led me into the store.  The experience was pretty interesting; clothes were organized by type: skirts, shorts, tops etc…As soon as we walked in to the store, the power went out.  Choosing clothes in the dark isn’t my favorite activity but Tina and I gave it our best shop.

Looking through the racks, there was a wide variety of fabrics, styles, and sizes.  The clothes were all fairly modern with a few hilarious exceptions.  One clothing line seen over and over was Millers. 

Note to the Millers fashion group: stop making ugly clothes.  Nobody wants those granny blouses you sell…I mean it, NOBODY. 

By the end of it, I had grabbed several skirts and tops and walk away with a bag of clothes for about 35 dollars N.Z.  Not bad.

This week was another marathon of dinner parties (Marco goes on strike on Friday night; I guess there is a limit to dinner parties for him); one of my favorite wantoks, Adam, came to two of them.  Adam is always good fun and I laugh more around him than I have in ages and ages.  We host an American Wantok dinner night with Daphne as well. 

Daphne\ teaches Tessa how to Salsa.  Tessa grabs my red stilettos (we have the same shoe size) and gives a go.  Cautious at first, Tessa gets into it and adds flirty movements with her hips with a big smile on her face.  She starts to beem and flounce.

Daphne has that effect on people; she is very good at convincing you to try something new and push out from your comfort zone.  Now, my wantok Daphne is a stylish lady from NYC and she offers to help restyle me.  After picking some pretty dubious things at the kalico store and with my current style being decidedly tropical frump, she sees that I need help.   We make an appointment for Saturday to help me sort things out.

On Friday, it’s another dinner party and a wee excursion to the Kava Bar/Car Wash for some much needed dancing.  Adam and I pose for photographs, going for a 1960s beach party look.  The one thing I like about Adam is how much we laugh and get the same jokes.  It’s like having a great, old friend that I never knew I had.  We go home early, in preparation for what turned out to be the cooking challenge of my life. 

Saturday started off badly; I lost my keys.  I was hot and irritated. Marco and I went to the market and a big fight broke out.  I got groped, again.  Marco left me with a large fish, with scant instructions: olive oil, lemons, garlic.  Put in the oven for a bit.  He goes off to the hotel to do some work and leaves me with a fish a kind of fish I have never seen before. Thanks.

But by the afternoon, I center a bit more.  Tessa brought her very kind and soft spoken art teacher, MacKenzie, over for a lesson.  MacKenzie is a very well known local artist from Rennell province.  His people are Polynesian in origin and were fairly isolated from the rest of the Solomon Islands.  There is something very sensual and masculine about MacKenzie; I’m not entirely sure if it is his tattoos, his artistic flare or his piercing gaze, but he is gorgeous.  I wonder how Tessa can focus on her art…Daphne came along as well, to do some painting and to help sort out my sad wardrobe. 

Daphne throws herself into my closet with the passion of seasoned professional (which she is) and I felt, slightly, like her fashion talents are completely lost here in the Sollies. About two thirds of the items I purchased at the kalico shop get a veto.  Daphne is very good about it but when I bring out a white skirt with roses on it, she looks at me like, why would you do that?  What possessed you to go there?  Or that shirt might be better as a pillow, not for a person… I find the experience both humbling and necessary…

I start wearing red again and my big belt.  The curve of my hip starts to show more and my legs are peaking out of skirts.  I start to feel a bit sexy again; I feel like I’m getting my groove back a bit. Daphne and I decide that my fashion icon should be Sophia Loren (another shapely gal) who was full of passion and fire.  I can relate; it’s just my fire is current on the low setting.  I have been so focused on the house, cooking, working, dinner parties and other things, I forgot to look after me.  Again.

Daphne promises to take me shopping on Wednesday to give me a hand on making better choices while kalico shopping.  When I come out of my room in my cooking smock, she looks at me with despair and mouths a resounding No! to my choice.  I told her it was just for cooking, she looked at me like even what I was wearing wasn’t good enough to cook in, which is fair enough…little did I know that I would be wearing it 

for awhile longer than I had hoped.

In the evening, the power goes out.  For hours.  Now I’ve got to cook for eight people without any power and only a coconut lantern to cook by.  The bonus prize: I end up, through being convinced by my two housemates, to cook both chicken and fish and a veggie stirfry with noodles.  The meals are complicated and would be challenging with power.  Without it, some very interesting dishes come out.

I can’t read the labels, so I just assume I’m grabbing a soy sauce bottle.  Wrong.  It is a bottle of black vinegar.  My good friend Hannah helps me out.  Hannah is probably the best assistant chef I know; she is always patient, kind and supportive.  But when I ask her to taste the veggies, even she can’t hide the fact that it tastes like feet. 

“Hmm…it needs something…” she says.

I panic; I’m out of soy sauce.  Thank goodness for good neighbours; I shout “COOKING EMERGENCY” from the kitchen and ask Stan and Jean if they have some soy sauce.  They do.   The bottle arrives but sadly not much can be done to the vinegary noodles.  Everyone, except Marco, is very supportive of the noodles. 

“You should be happy; you hava very nice friends who won’t complain about how bad that dish was,” Marco says.  Thanks. Again.

Daphne points out that it was a ballsy move in the first place to even try and cook without power.  She would have taken everyone out to eat.  It seems such a simple solution; I wish I would have thought of it earlier.  The whole experience left me hot (no fans and an oven!), challenged and feeling like a small failure.  Like so many times in my life, I underestimate the size of the job and end up paying for it.  However, we have good 

company in Gretchen and Alan, two aussie volunteers who keep things light hearted.

Things are going pretty good with my housemates, however, a few concerning habits have started to emerge.  Marco has gotten into a nasty habit of breaking things.  It started about a week ago when he dropped Tessa’s beautiful espresso cup on the floor of the kitchen.  Now, the tiles in the kitchen are hard and shiny; once you drop something on them, it shatters without fail.

Marco swears in Italian as the little cup shatters to pieces on the floor.  I bend down to pick it up; there are numbers at the bottom.  Numbers, especially those with only four or so, is not a good sign.  Tessa runs down the uneven stairs, distraught as seeing her beautiful cup in pieces.  Now, I understand that it might seem strange to bring something valuable here BUT we all need some little memory of home.  For Tessa, there is nothing better than sitting out on our balcony in the morning, and taking a moment to enjoy the view, sipping from her beautiful cup.  Now, her little moment of home and peace is shattered. 

Marco looks sheepish but Tessa takes it better than I would have.  However, this will not be the last time that Marco breaks something.  The next evening he tops himself by breaking not one but two glasses; one was part of a set purchased only that day by Tessa.  Even the neighbours next door hear the smashing sound.  Our Italian neighbor next door yells out “Oh Marco!”  in response, without even seeing him downstairs. 

I guess one of two things is happening; either Marco has the most unsteady hands in Honiara OR he is taking out his secret rage about living with me and Tessa on our glassware.  Marco is thereafter forbidden to hold anything breakable, which gets him out of all kinds of chores…I think it is a very good strategy…

Marco’s trail of destruction doesn’t end with the glasses.  On Sunday, we have a key malfunction and can’t get in the house.  Now, it’s Sunday afternoon, and that means one thing to Marco: siesta time.  The door is between him and his comfy (actually the thing is hard as a rock) bed.  He grows impatient, which is the first time I’ve seen him anything other than pretty cool and calm.  Marco deftly caresses the door, takes a deep breath and bangs on it three times before it breaks open.  The latch carcass lays sprawled out on the floor.

“I could have karate kicked the door but the door would have broken completely,” Marco says, looking a bit sad at missing an opportunity to kick the door.

I guess the door learned the important lesson: never get between an Italian man and his bed on a Sunday afternoon. 

Maybe this is a good lesson for us all to learn.

Marco heads back to work, Tessa is away.  I have the house to myself.  The peace and quiet lasts four hours; the longest I have been alone in the house since I moved in one month ago.  I play my music, and start putting back my closet.  I put on my high heels and walk around the wooden floorboards, laughing at myself. I missed this part of me, the part that likes to be a glamour puss.

I enjoy the moment and then, with a knock on the door to let Marco in (thankfully, not a karate kick), it passes.  

Solomon Islands Recipe of the Week: Tina’s easy cook corn beef and veggies

Okay, so Tina, my ever patient and caring local colleague, has agreed to share her ingenious recipe of corned beef and veggies.  Now, in the Sollies, beef protein is hard to come by and expensive EXCEPT in one form: tinned corn beef.  Tina feeds a family of five and she has found pretty good ways of saving money and ensuring her family a balanced diet of protein, fats and carbs.  Canned meats are pretty much universally used in Melanesia as a way to supplement diets.  In Hawaii, consumption of Spam has turned into an art form.   

Now, I prefer the corn beef that Ox and Palm makes, with its classic retro styled cans and key top opener.  Bonus: you can use the cans as decor when finished.   Tina, however, says you can really use anything.  While some people might balk at eating tinned meats, I say give it a chance!  It’s not as bad as you think. 

Tina cooked me this recipe when we went to Gizo and I have to say, it’s pretty damn tasty. 

So anyway here it is:

Tina’s Easy Cook Corn Beef and Veggies

Ingredients:

·        

2 or 3 medium sized capsicums

·          ½ chili pepper

·         1 onion
           1 clove of garlic

·         1 tin of corned beef

·         5 tomatoes

·         Salt and pepper to taste and some fresh ginger
·      

Directions:

·         Start the rice on stove or in rice cooker.

·         Chop up the veggies.  Put to one side.

·         Put oil and garlic in a heated pan.  Brown the garlic.

·         Add onion.

·         Add the veggies and ginger, salt and pepper.

·         Open your Ox and Palm tin of corn beef.  Mix with veggies.

·         Heat for five minutes and serve on a bed of rice.

And that's it!  It takes about 20 minutes all up and it is pretty yummy.  So don't be afraid to open up a tin of Ox and Palm and go for it!

TIl next week, lukim ui!

S

This one is for the boys...

I think one of the saddest things I’ve seen is a Wildcat airplane sitting in a jungle, rotting in the hot sun.  The Wildcat was pretty much intact when it crashed in 1943 but years of sunning in the Solomons and looters have let it a shell.   

Stan, his son Ryan, and myself embarked on a little day trip west of Honiara to the open air WW2 museum.  First off, finding the museum is no easy task; the sign has been ripped down at least three times by locals.  Secondly, it’s pretty far out of town.  There are small roads leading in and out of the jungle so it is pretty difficult to figure out which one it is.  Good thing Stan had been there before and despite his mass of white hair, his memory is pretty intact.

We are greeted by Anderson, who has been hired to be the caretaker and tour guide of the place.  The open air museum used to be quite something back before the Tension, but it was raided for anything useful during the conflict. Now it’s just filled with the skeletons of the war.

The museum is filled with relics from the brutal Solomon Island campaign; the wreckage of ten planes sit under trees (and sometimes have trees growing in them, with branches snaking around the metal and holding the plane tight to the trunk).  Large artillery guns sit abandoned and a large copper cooking pot is riddled with bullet holes.  Anderson shows me where bees have attached themselves to the hanging vines of a tree and died; a sort of bee graveyard.  Hundreds of bee carcasses cling to the vines.  Even the bees know that this is where you come to die.

I walk towards the Wildcat; its frame is almost completely intact.  It sits there, sort of ghostly, the metal still gleaming in the sunlight.  Anderson shows us how to bend back its wing; a useful piece of engineering to store more planes on a carrier.  While the electronics and all the wiring and all the other stuff is gone, it feels amazing to run my hands down the intact wing and run my fingers across the make, model and patent number (patent pending).

Anderson, the caretaker, proudly walks us through the rest of the museum.  It isn’t very large but there are several Japanese, U.S. and New Zealand memorial plaques there. 

As the war is fading fast into our collective memories, so have visits from tourists and veterans.  We look around the grass is high; there is barely a path to follow.  It must have been at least two or three weeks since anyone else had been here.

The amazing thing about the open air museum is to really touch these planes.  These aren’t replicas, they aren’t museum models.  These planes were shot down in battle.  The retrieval stories of these planes are probably as interesting as the war itself; some were pulled from the bottom of lagoons; others towed from the deep jungles in Guadalcanal and Savo.     

Anderson was a part of all that, in the late 1960s and 1970s.  That was the time when war veterans seem to reconnect with their past and could finally talk about it again.  Anderson looks sad; he says he hasn’t seen a veteran here for several years.  It is a reminder that we are losing all those brave men to the inevitable; old age. I bet some of those guys in retirement homes thought they would never made it off Guadalcanal alive.  32,000 Japanese and 7,000 Americans died here.

On the memorial for the Japanese, it states: “when two sides go to war, both leave the battle scarred and wounded.  Both are defeated.”

I believe that.  Even though we won the war, it was at an enormous cost.  Stan says to me that he thinks about the enormous waste of money because it is simply too hard for him to think about the loss of life.  I understand.

Stan, my intrepid neighbor, is one of my favorite people in Honiara.  His wife Jean too.  Stan was born in Egypt and has travelled around the world, working in far off places like Afghanistan and East Timor.  He is practical and moves quickly.  We go to the market together and he walks off, anxious to get his fruits and veggies. 

Now, being an obvious foreigner with my hands filled with produce and flowers, and alone has made me a target for a pickpocketer.

I knew it was happening; I could sense myself being watched from above and the man pushed me unnecessarily and moved fast.  A local woman screamed at him and grabbed his arm.  I looked down at my pocket and my money was still there, all accounted for.

A crowd gathered around the young man, who denied any wrong doing.  I glared at him and moved forward to confront him.  He ran off.  I guess I have a fairly mean glare.

This, however, brings home a point for me.  As a single woman, I am constantly targeted by men here.  Either they want to sleep with me, mug me or take advantage in some way.  Here I feel it truly is a man’s world.  It seems the men make the decisions and the women have to dutifully stick by their men.  Except in cases of pickpocketing, where it was a woman who helped me out.  

The funny thing is that women in development jobs outnumber men pretty significantly, so obviously women chose to put themselves in this kind of environment. 

Anyway, Jeremy comes around, quite unaware about the pickpocketing incident.  I tell him but he doesn’t here.  I’m slightly shaken up by it, to be honest.

I go home and meet up with Marco, who is also not too worried about the experience and just states it is a normal part of life.  He is probably right; it’s a pretty common thing in Italy.  I remember when I was in Rome celebrating my 21^st birthday, my grandfather was picket pocketed not once but twice.  Tessa and Marco are both reveal one night that they are both Sicilian, which I can’t decide if that makes me feel safer or makes me want to lock my bedroom door at night.   

But I do have my wantok around me if things get tough.  Eddy returns from surfing the amazing breaks in Gizo (he wanted to surf a break that NO ONE he knew would have surfed).  He goes to the market on Sunday and buys fresh tuna.  The two houses break into a raw fish making competition; Eddy with his poke (raw fish dish from Hawai’i) and Marco with his capriccio.  Actually, Marco teaches me how to make it while he is busy cooking.  Some olive oil, lemon, salt, pepper and spring onions can do wonderful things…  

Tuna is amazing.  A darker and richer fish than most, you can replace pretty much most meat with tuna.  It’s a good thing too; one thing the Solomons have in spades is fresh tuna.

Marco makes the most delicious tuna pasta I have ever eaten.  The things the man can do with food is unreal… basically we use all the fish and he kindly fries up some fish heads for me.  Clearly, the man knows the way to my heart…fish heads.  I happily eat one at dinner until I find its tongue.  Now, eating tongue feels wrong.  It’s like you are making out with the fish.  Only not.  Anyway, it’s not good and turned me off fish heads, at least until the next morning, when Marco fries me up another fish head and its all go.

The protein breakfast does me some good; I voluntarily go to Hash in the evening.  Now, we have not one, but two cyclones in the area making everything wet and windy.  The rain is coming down in curtains and it takes all of two minutes for me to get completely soaked. 

Now, the event is a bit of a hill run and it quickly turns into mud skiing.  I spend more time on my ass than I do on my feet.  I’m soaked to the bone, covered in mud.  Some local boys decide to follow and laugh at us unfit white people struggling to stand in the mud.  But they are good sorts and help us through some of the unsafe bits.  We trek through a plantation of cassava plants and sadly, we used some for stability.  Some cassava plants did not survive the Hash experience.

At times I was annoyed, scared and numb.  But overall I had an absolutely blast; what an adventure trekking through the mud and rain in lush out hills of Honiara.  Afterwards I felt alive and happy. 

Marco and Tessa, who both piked out of Hash to hang out at the Mendana Hotel, got wet, muddy hugs from me.  Marco ran away quickly; it’s not nice to mess with an Italian man’s appearance.  I think he is still at home, try to wash the mud out of his clothes…

I have to say I was getting a bit bitter, a bit jaded about the men folk.  Watching gender dynamics in this country can be difficult and challenging and my own past has coloured my view about boys.

But this week challenged me to rethink my relationship with men.  From taking me to see the old bombed out WW2 planes to getting fed tuna to having my hand held in the rain and mud (thank you Rainmaker!), men have been there for me this week.  I marvel at what happened here in WW2; I mean, sure men caused it in the first place but they also committed selfless acts of bravery too.      

So I guess what I’m trying to convey is my thanks to the boys this week…this one is for you.

 

Solomon Islands Recipe of the Week: Cassava Pudding

Yes, yes…its puddin’ time!  After weeks of boring you with curry this and weird fern dishes, I thought it was time to take a walk on the sweet side.  Now, a quick note for the Americans: pudding tends to mean dessert in  commonwealth countries, like the Solomons, not the stuff that Bill Cosby sold us in the 1990s.  

Now, a couple of things on the culinary front that have made me terribly excited this week.  First, I have finally procured a coconut scraper!  For weeks, I have hunted like a mad thing, around the markets and hardware stores for a coconut scraper.  But sadly, my efforts were in vain.  Yet hark!  When one of my delightful coworkers, who is off to Mongolia, announced a moving sale, I moved quickly for one coconut scraper.

Sadly, it was already purchased by Ben (remember him, from Gizo?).  I grabbed it anyway, marveling at its beautiful craftsmanship.  The scraper bit was made in Vanuatu and therefor somehow really special.  I decided then and there, that I must have it and that I would simply hit Ben over the head with it until he gave it to me.

Ben, being the kind of guy he is, gladly gave it to me.  So now, I have a coconut scraper, which I named after the co worker going to Mongolia.  He found it slightly funny, as I have to sit on said scraper to make it work.  

Or something. 

Anyway, am excited about milking coconuts…just trying to figure out where the nipples are…

Okay! Enough thinking about coconut nipples!  Time for the cassava recipe!

Cassava, according to Wikipedia (the well of all knowledge), is the third most common crop in the world.  It can be used for either sweet or savory dishes, or as a door stop. Your choice.  It looks like a root, pretty much, with a wooden veneer. It’s called a tapioca, by the way.  

I usually buy the pudding at the market because I’m lazy and because it makes an excellent breakfast, when heated up with some milk, brown sugar and cinnamon.

So here it is:

Ingredients:

·         2 medium sweet cassava

·         2 cups brown sugar

·         2 eggs beaten

·         3 oz. butter

·         2 cups coconut milk

·         1 teaspoon cinnamon powder (you could use nutmeg too…anything spicy is good).

·         1 teaspoon baking powder

·         ½ cup warm water

Directions:

·         Preheat oven to 180 degrees Cel. Or about 350 degrees.  (There is a reason I don’t bake very often; I tend to not be very specific).

·         Wash and grate cassava with a fine grater. (Apparently, I’ve just been told I need to buy a cassava grater….)

·         Combine cassava, coconut milk, sugar, cinnamon and mix

·         Combine all above ingrediants with beaten eggs and mix

·         Slowly add the half cup of warm water…stir…stir some more…stir….keep stirring…

·         Now, put in a greased baking tin.  Cook for at least 30 minutes or until bouncy.

Ah….I’m going to try this and review this recipe, which isn’t terribly local.  Most puddings aren’t made with eggs, milk, cinnamon or sugar because these items are rare-ish in rural villages. 

If you have any questions, concerns, comments, rants, or reviews, please email me at stilettosinsolomons@yahoo.com.

Lukim ui! 

S