Temotu Part One: Reef (er) Madness

(So starts the three part series regarding my adventures in Temotu.  Read and enjoy!)  

The trip to Temotu starts off with a fantastic false start: at the airport, trying to check in and getting ignored by the ground crew.  The plane takes off without us and I have to wait another five days to go.  Planes only leave for Temotu every five days, so missing one really puts a spanner in your plans.

I was pretty irritated by the turn of events but it all worked out for the best in the end. On Wednesday evening, I got second place in the week’s Solomon Island Poker Association Texas Holdem game.  Tessa turned out to be a much more gifted poker player than myself and takes home the first prize.  I have to admit that I didn’t last long against my housemate and her last hand, a pair of pocket twos which turned into a three of a kind.  My pair of pocket aces, a pretty good hand, did not compete.

Also, I was able to attend Daphne’s Go Finis (farewell) party.  It turned out to be a pretty good night; all of us dressed up like 80s rock gods.  Daphne, of course, looks amazing and I rock my Madonna t-shirt (which I already had in my wardrobe).  There is an 80s fashion show and loads of dancing.  Of course I embarrass myself by sexily trying to crawl across the floor circa 1983 MTV awards with Madonna’s wedding dress performance but fail miserably.  Oh well.

Miguel, a good friend of mine, comes as “Miguel Jackson”.  Miguel is from Spain, has long black hair and looks exactly like a Spanish Michael Jackson.  When I go to him and say that I think he looks amazing as Michael Jackson, he smiles.

“I know.  Yes, I am very good…,” he says in the most beautiful Castilian accent.

We stagger home around 3 a.m. I’m in pretty good nick; I couldn’t drink during the party because I had the 6 a.m. plane to catch to Temotu.  I make sure that my ever- patient counterpart, Tina, and I are the first people to get checked in.  On the air plane ticket, my name is completely incorrect.  I turn out to be Mr. Mark Brian Sara - hilariously incorrect!  Good thing Solomon Air doesn’t even check i.d.s to ensure correct identity.

We board the spacious Dash 8 and I sit and am asleep before the island of Guadalcanal disappears from view.  I wake up some two hours later, only a couple hundred feet above the island of Santa Cruz.  From my window, I can see a volcano, a perfect cone-like structure just plopped there, rising above the sea.

Santa Cruz, from what I can see of it, is a lush volcanic island, surrounded by coral reefs and sandy beaches.  There are little villages around the outside of the island but the inland part looks like no one has been there. Ever. There are few roads that I can see. I can’t see the Reef Islands (known as simply the Reef by locals), our main destination, at all.

We land in Lata, the capital of Temotu Province.  The Dash 8 lands easily on the grassy airstrip.  There are, according to Wikipedia (the source of all knowledge), 36 airstrips in the Solomon Islands.  Only two are paved.  The rest are grassy or coral or sand or a combination of all three.  Most are leftovers from World War II that have simply been maintained over the years.  I think the Sollies would be an ideal place for a fleet of sea planes.  

As I get out of the plane, I am hit by a wave of humidity and heat.  Apparently Lata is significantly more humid than Honiara.  My hair turns to auburn ringlets as soon as my feet hit the ground.  Its only 10 a.m. and it’s more than 35 degrees.  People surround the plane; mostly locals waiting for wantok.  We have one staff member, Gregory, who is returning to the Reef Islands for the first time in a decade.  When people leave Temotu, they don’t return for a very, very long time. 

Geographically, Temotu is so far away from the main strip of islands that it probably should be in Vanuatu rather than the Solomons.  Its isolation makes it a difficult place to get anything done and most people are lucky if they can get out with any .  It is easy to get marooned in Temotu.  But more on that later…

We are surrounded by Temotu-ians…all scrambling to grab gear; it’s hard to maintain focus and grab my own bags, but I manage.  I meet Jack, the new area manager for the organization I work at.  Jack is from Romania and has been living in Temotu for six months.  He has picked up pidgin quickly, being only one of five expats living in Lata.

We drop off the bags in the nice guest house.  There are no hotels in Lata - population 1,000 (maybe).  There are no restaurants.  There are two bars but I am cautioned to stay away.  We walk around the whole town in a matter of minutes.  To be honest, there ain’t a lot to Lata.

I try to stop and talk to the local RAMSI officers to see if they know where the rumored Lata dive shop is but they are busy napping.

Jack walks around with us and explains to stay away from a few of the more crazy locals.  One attacked a volunteer from N.Z. with a crow bar.  The other likes to stalk people but this is, apparently, only when you have lived there for a little while.  A woman likes to show you her leather belt on her fist in an attempt to be menacing.  Everywhere we go, Jack and I get stares.  When I say hello, people laugh or run away.   

After we stop at a few of the small shops and pick up a few supplies, we head back to the guest house.  I take a nap, just like the RAMSI officers. I, personally, am exhausted and the little nap turns out to be a BIG sleep, waking up early in the morning. 

Roosters surround the guest house and crow and crow and crow until I start reciting the recipe for cock au vin in my mind.  Land hermit crabs as big as my fist crawl around on the gravel.   I go to bed to finish up my rest; we have a long boat ride in the morning.

***

The morning is hot by six-ish.  Tina fixes a small breakfast for us.  I pack  my two bags; one for Reef and one to stay in Lata.  Pinkie, the ever- adventuresome laptop, stays in Lata in the security of Jack’s house.   

We go down to the wharf.  One of the big boats is docked.  Now, these big boats, which are essentially rusted islands of steel that are kept together with some rope and mechanical tape, carry many people around the province.  It’s only a matter of time before one sinks; clearly maintaince ain’t that important and some of these heaps have been sailing around since the 1940s or even earlier.  This one has come all the way from Honiara; a quick five day boat ride.  Supplies come off in large sacks and people mill about getting their shipments from the capital.

There is a small market under some trees selling beetlenut, nambo (the local Temotu breadfruit biscuit which tastes like molted paper), and some veggies.  We board the little boat in the harbor, which is a typical banana boat, approximately 14 feet in length with one outboard motor.  The five of us pile in and put on our life jackets.  Jack says the weather looks good, if not a little windy and we should be fine to cross over to the Reef Islands.

Did I mention that the Reef Islands were a three hour boat ride away across open water?  This ain’t no channel, it’s the Pacific in all its glory.  I gulp.  Even the Reef Islanders on board look nervous.  And, as I would learn, they had every right to be.

We head off; its warm and the ride is somewhat pleasant.  There is a slight swell and it is choppy.  The front of the boat slaps down as we ride over waves.  The ride around Santa Cruz island is fairly quick and we stop off at a village before making our way across.  I use the facilities, which is pretty much an isolated, covered part of the beach at the village. 

We leave but we start with a prayer before crossing to the Reef. 

The first 20 minutes are awful; it’s basically crossing over a bar and the waves are very high, almost the size of the boat.  I’m nervous, as are all the crew but it passes.  My strategy for not letting fear drive me totally bonkers is music; I clutch onto my little MP3 player with a death grip and listen to the heaviest rock I have. As the White Stripes and the Black Keys serenade me across, I look at the smoldering volcano as my main point.  When we start, it is slightly to the left and in front; half way through we pass the island.  Then it is behind us and out of my view.

We don’t pass a single boat or canoe on our way to the Reefs.  Every year people make the crossing and get lost at sea; last year a huge search effort was put out of a Telecom worker and four other people.  For two weeks, a massive search went out and they think the people lived until then because searchers were getting signals from their satellite phone every afternoon.  The boat eventually drifted to Malaita, and that’s where the story gets weird.  Apparently, from local legend, the people were still alive when they reached Malaita and then were attacked by local pirates.  Their stuff was sold back to the family for a large sum.  What really happened to the people remains a mystery; another group of lost souls the Pacific swallowed up.

I had been told that the Reefs are so low, you can’t see them from the boat.  I found this to be untrue; I was very relieved when I saw a row of trees jutting out from the water.  The swell has calmed down some and is now a nice two to three metres.  

I think about my emergency beacon, tucked safely in my dry bag, out of reach. I decide to think about something else.  Tina clutches onto my leg to keep herself from moving all over the boat.  We took the centre seat and are covered in spray, completely soaked. 

Finally, the water calms as we get closer to the Reefs.  The islands are a series of, you guessed it, old reefs that have emerged from the sea floor.  Most islands rise about three metres above sea level.  High tide covered some islands completely. Changes in the climate and over population in the Reefs have forced some villages to evacuate.

We finally make it to our destination; a guest house on one of the islands.  We unload our gear and everyone looks relieved.  Only later I am told that people go to the Reefs all the time in little boats, never to return.  Of course this was always in rough weather but the boatman says grimly that you never know when the weather will turn.  Weather reports are useless, except to say when cyclones are coming. Temotu is a particularly popular spot for cyclones; they like to holiday there after going to Vanuatu. 

The guest house we stay at is nice but no one has the key to the bedrooms.  They use a spoon to break in because the owner lives in Lata and it would take days to get the key to us.  It makes me feel slightly uncomfortable about the lack of proper security there.

It is the only "permanent" building on the island; every other building is a grass hut of some description.  As I sit on the stairs, after settling in, I watch a pig and chicken compete for a wounded land crab.  The pig is obviously bigger but tied up to the tree.  The rooster, a beautiful one with bushy black feathers, torments the pig, and is able to pick easily at the land crab.  The pig snorts in anger and frustration and finally gives up, sitting in the black earth, depressed.  In the battle of chicken vs. pig, chicken wins.  

There is no shower; we take showers outside through our lava lavas, which we wrap around ourselves.  It’s kind of uncomfortable because the little eyes follow me everywhere, including when I’m bathing myself.  I take to showering at night.

Living in the Reef feels like turning the clock back 100 years or more.  There are no stores, no electricity, no mobiles, no television, no sanitation...only people, grass huts, and the occasional dug out canoe.  The poverty is intense and all consuming; kids with limps, scars, malformed pallets, all kinds of disabilities run around.  It might seem like an environmental paradise to some but here the lack of development is clearly impacting on the lives around us. 

I’m a subject of fascination for the children here; some burst into tears when they see me and others look at me with wide eyes.  I can’t decide if they think I’m a devil or an angel or a ghost.  The little ones follow me around everywhere watching everything I do.

Tina and I go for a swim around the coral reef and the fish life is pretty amazing.  Little yellow and blue fish hug the reef and then it drops off to darker water.

As we settle in for the night, I read by the light of a kerosene lantern and my torch (flashlight).  My body feels beaten from the boat ride over; I feel sore everywhere.  I’m exhausted from the heat, the sun; my nose turns a bright red.

We go to bed early, tomorrow is our first field visit and we want to start early and fresh.

The Dive

(This blog is dedicated to my mother.  Thanks mom, you are the best!)

This week I embarked on one of the most amazing experiences of my life: my PADI course (this is a SCUBA diving course, for those of you not in the know...)

Now, some of my very old friends will be laughing at this because they know I have several bizarre phobias, the strangest and strongest is of sharks.  Seriously, at times I refused baths as a child because I thought Jaws was going to come out of the fosset and munch me. I feared swimming pools.  When I went snorkeling last year, I asked Tessa to hold my hand.

I’m not confident in the ocean environment, so taking a diving course was a huge step for me.

So why did I do it?

Well, this ties in a bit with Mother’s Day.  It was my mother who inspired me to do it.  While this might surprise you, as mothers are usually the ones who caution their kids against risk, this wouldn’t surprise anyone who knows my mother.

My mother was the one who inspired me to face my fears and conquer them.  As a little girl, I would wake up in the middle of the night, crying about a monster in my closet. My mother looked at me and said, “You have to face the monster and call it out of the closet.”  One night I called out the monster and when it never appeared, I told my mother that the monster was a chicken to not come out and face me.  The monster never bothered me again.   

It was my mother who encouraged me to travel, to explore, to take on new challenges and never back down from anything.  She taught me to value myself and never let the brothers or boys to treat me badly.  It was my mother who encouraged me to take this role in the Solomons, to go back to Christchurch for the earthquake and to return back here when my job was done.  Mom always pushed me forward, to do the unexpected and to be constantly evolving as a person.

My mother suggested I go scuba diving.  After months of humming and hawing, I did it.  And again, I am forever grateful to my mom, because it was AWESOME.

Myself and the Greek Doctor make it down to Tulagi Dive for the course.  The two nights of theory go by quickly, with Gabe as our instructor.  The books arrive on the second day and we have to cut short the Friday night tutorial due to the hosting of a poker night at Casa Turchese (by the way, the night was great, we had 24 players at one point).  

Anyway, on Saturday, the Greek Doctor and I are nervous.   Neither of us feel prepared for spending the better part of the afternoon under metres of water.

When we arrive at the Bonege for our dive, it is overcast and rainy.  Not the best diving conditions.  While on our course, we only had one other person, a lovely older gentleman name Fred.  Now we are accompanied by nine army boys.  Now, settle down ladies, this would turn out not to be as sexy as one might think…

The first challenge: putting on all the gear.  Now, there are several important items you need to have when scuba diving.  The first is your buoyancy control device (BCD) which is basically a black vest that inflates to keep you floating and helps connect all the important stuff together.  Then you need your weight belt, to keep you down.  Mask, snorkels, regulators (to breathe) control gauges, scuba fines, dive tables, slates, a knife and an air cylinder are also included.  While these seems like a lot of stuff, it all fits together nicely around the mid section of your body (except the fins, of course).

It takes us a bit to get it all on and, as the only two girls on the course, myself and Greek doctor get special attention from the instructors.  The cylinders are heavy but both of us have enough muscle to lift it up and help each other out.

We walk down to the water.  We get in.  It takes me the longest to get on my fins…by the time I get on my fins, the army boys are way out, and metres down.  I hate them. And I would hate them most of the course.

The first decent feels weird, as we go down to three or four metres.  Holding the inflation/deflation hose above my head, I feel like I am parachuting out of a plane.  I look up and the water looks like a glass ceiling above me.  I look below and I see my classmates calmly sitting at the bottom.  I struggle to sit at the bottom.  I would struggle the first dive with getting down; it seems to take forever.

We go through drills like giving our diving buddy (mine was the amazing Greek doctor, who was ever patient with me) air, clearing our masks, getting on a vertical plane and other basic skills.

At the end, we go slowly around the wreck and I get a moment to actually observe the marine environment. The wreck is from World War 2 and the sea has covered it with coral and other reef material.  Fish swim around the reefs and I spot clown fish and tiger fish.  I take slow, calm breathes and enjoy my role as an observer. 

The experience is so amazing, I use the two thumbs up signal to show my enthusasim at Gabe...luckily, he knew that I didn't want to go up (that is what the thumb up signal is for) but that I was really impressed with the sea life...my friend Frank, who joined us on the dive on Sunday, came up with a whirly finger thingy to show how impressed we are.  Frank also managed to do the hokey pokey and turned himself around in the shallows...it was most impressive...

Back to dive number one...we head up and I am buzzing.  I take off my mask and realize that because I had the end of a slight cold, my mask was full of snot.  Not the sexiest of looks.  However, the dive was pretty amazing.

The next dive would not be as fun.

This one had us taking off our masks.  Now, I’m a nose breather, through and though.  I only breathe through my mouth when I am singing or am sick.  For some reason, the idea of taking off my mask in the water freaked me out.  My long hair got in the way and Gabe had to keep brushing it out of the mask.  I bolted to the surface.  Gabe grabbed hold of my BCD and helped me make a more controlled ascent. 

That was the last time I had an underwater freak out. Tobias, a local dive master, stayed with me in the surface and said simply:

“Don’t beat yourself up about it, it’s only your first day diving, Sara!”

His words were a great relief; I didn’t have to be perfect, the dive instructors were looking out for me and my safety, always.

The next hour is spent doing more drills.  As Gabe turns to watch me do my exercises underwater, he gives me the “Okay” sign and gives me a little clap.  The girl swat in me secretly delights at getting a round of applause underwater.

After our drills, we tour the wreck again, this time going through the middle of the boat.

Its very easy to get disoriented in the water.  When you are midway between the surface and the ocean floor, its really difficult to tell directions.  It is very easy to lose people and I am constantly looking for my buddy, the Greek Doctor.  

As we go through the boat, an army boy, who I am following, picks up a shell and shows it to me.  This wouldn’t have been so bad except that there were ten people behind me and this caused a bit of a traffic jam, causing the Greek Doctor to get a small cut on her leg. 

At the end of the dive, I just sit on the sand, playing with the grits between my fingers, marveling at the textures, sounds, colours, shapes and tastes of the underwater world.  I come up to the surface to laughing; one of the army boys vomited through his regulator, feeding the fish.  Thanks guys.  

We get out of the water, exhausted.  We go home and go to bed early; our next dive starts at eight in the morning.

The next morning is partially sunny and the water is flat like a lake.  The Bonege 2 boat is rusting out of the water. I’ve snorkeled the wreck before and know that the ocean life is pretty spectacular. 

We start with drills in six metres of water, finishing with our emergency ascent in one breath.

At the end we go around the wreck.  As I watch my dive computer hit 18 metres, I realize that if anything serious happened, I was trapped under heaps of water and couldn’t just bolt up to the top.  We round the tip of the boat and I see dark blue down below me.  I calm down and simply look at the fish, trying not to think of what creatures lurk below me or what would happen if I get caught in the wreck.

Gabe takes me through the wreck, dodging rusted rigging and jutting pieces of wreck.  He plops a multi coloured slug on my hand.  The slug (Gabe called them a nuddiebranch or something like that; he is Aussie and therefor difficult to understand) has wonderful nubby tips of neon orange and white. It is beautiful to hold and I fall in love with this new, strange environment.

I sit back, surprised that diving gets such a perception of being a very hardcore sport.  You always see muscled supermen in black dive suits going backwards from a boat, wrestling with fish underwater.  But it couldn’t be further from the reality.  The environment is very calming, almost meditative and I have to remind myself several times that I am actually underwater.  I simply observe calming and let the current move my body around.  This is hardly the sport I perceived it to be.

As we go through the wreck, I touch sea creatures that live on the wreck.  My favorite is one that feels like pockets of soft silica gel.  We leave the wreck behind and go to the sandy bottom, where Gabe points out grass like creatures that point up and around.  I swim closer and the small eels slip quickly into the sands.

We end our dive and head back to the dive shop for more learnin’. 

We finish the course early because I have to Skype my mom on mother’s day.  I show her my face for 20 seconds (all the memory we can afford) and she says it was exactly what she wanted for Mother’s Day.  It seems a poor gift to the woman who not only gave me life but also encouraged me to get a real life, one full of adventure. 

Like diving.

I end the day exhausted but when my head hits the pillow, I have a big smile on my face.

Note: I HIGHLY recommend that if you want to learn how to dive or take a more advanced course in the Solomon Islands, chose Tulagi Dive.  They are great, professional, fun and they take you to interesting places.  When we were practicing with our compasses underwater, the water clarity was very poor and I thought that I had been forgotten in the fray and up popped Gabe to make me do my test.  Someone was always watching out for me and I felt very well looked after.  Thanks Tulagi Dive and the Tulagi Dive team for helping me on my way to becoming a diver.

Solomon Islands Recipe of the Week: Green Paw Paw (Papaya) Salad

We have two large, lovely papaya (paw paw) trees in our back yard at Casa Turchese. In fact, one is becoming so lovely and large that it is starting to block our sea view.  When I suggested that we cut it down, Tessa fought valiantly (and won) against me from committing tree murder.  So, we are now swimming in green papaya.

Now, when I lived in Hawaii, I used to frequent the Thai restaurants quite a bit.  My favorite thing to eat there was their Green Papaya Salad.  I drew inspiration from Hawaii and by our plethora of green papayas and the need to feed four people or more without spending very much money.  So, I came up with this recipe, which I think is kinda like the original. 

It’s fresh, easy to make, and very, very filling.

Here is the recipe:

Ingredients:

·        1 medium or large green paw paw (papaya)

·        1 clove garlic

·        Sesame seed oil

·        Fish sauce

·        Olive oil

·        1 small chili

·        Peanuts

·        3 or 4 bush limes to taste

·        Salt to taste

Directions:

·         Take your green papaya and cut it up in three or four large slices

·         Use a grater (the largest one you can find) and grate all the papaya.  You want the grated papaya to be somewhat large in size; about half a pinkie finger thick and about a pinkie finger long.

·         Make sure to drain the grated papaya because it can get very watery.

·         Mix olive and sesame seed oils, fish sauce, lime juice, salt, chilli, and garlic.  Ideally, the lime juice will be half the mixture and ¼ would be olive oil and ¼ will be sesame seed oil.   I don’t put exact measurements because it is to your taste, so feel free to be creative with quantities.

·         Put the dressing in the salad.

·         Serve with peanuts on top. Yum!

If you are a veggie, you can skip the fish sauce; it tastes just fine without it.  If you don’t have green papaya, you can replace with red cabbage.   

A quiet one (finally)

Overall this week was exactly what I needed: boring.  Hey, it’s been a bit OTT lately and its nice having a quiet week. 

A couple of interesting things did happen, however.

Somehow I convinced/manipulated/used my mother’s jedi mind guilt trips to get a much coveted invite to Aiden’s house to watch the royal wedding on the big screen.  Aiden is my terribly connected, compound living neighbor, who hosts diplomatic functions and band hero nights.  Again, I would hate him if he wasn’t so lovely to his white trash volunteer neighbours who talk too loud, make off colour jokes and flirt outrageously at his parties.     

Now, I am no royalist; in fact, technically I should be banned at his residence.  After all, not only am I American but my mother is French, and we all know what they did to their royalty.  But Americans in general have a fascination with royalty.  One I share, slightly.  But not that strongly.  I just wanted to see the dress, wear my little black dress, hang out with friends and drink Pims.  After all, there are worst ways to spend a Friday night.

The wedding goes well, obviously and it is moderately interesting.  I, for one, believe in the intimacy of weddings.  I had a small one myself and I wouldn’t have it any other way.  I get the feeling that the pair probably would have preferred to elope somewhere but had to do it that way.  And how many of us feel bound by tradition and family when it comes to the most intimate of ceremonies? 

So I sat there, gaping at strange hats and thinking that trees were a nice touch in the Abbey. 

The night ends somewhat dignified; I have a cold and cough and simply can’t keep my eyes open past 11.  In fact, I’ve been a terribly good girl this week, going to bed early to get rid of this chesty cough.

The dry season has come to the Solomons and everything is dusty.  However, after three weeks without rain, the Greek Doctor and I decide to go out shopping in a complete downpour. Bizarrely, neither of us have invested in an umbrella.

We sit on the bus, soaked to the bone, to the surprise of locals.  Shopping is done quickly; the Greek doctor likes to get in and get out of the shops as quickly as possible. 

I’ve enjoyed walking to work.  Besides the incident with the guy a few weeks ago, people are starting to accept me and ask me questions.  I start making a few friends on my way to work.  At first, most of the locals were slightly confused by a white girl roaming around the roads with a backpack on but now they are mostly happy to see me.  It’s not often an expat can be seen roaming the upper roads outside of a car.  But it gives me a chance to get to know people a bit better and for them to get to know me as well.

Jane, a good friend of a good friend from Wellington, has come to stay in Honiara.  She is a lovely lady and I start by giving her some advice and showing her the ropes (a bit) regarding the place.  We go on our first mission for kaliko shopping (second hand clothes shopping) and it goes down well.  Jane knows her fashion stuff and I appreciate her taste.  It’s always good to have another friend in Honiara.

Annabel, a wantok blo mi (a yankee like me), invites me and the Greek Doctor up to Visale for some much needed time away from the big dusty H.  Visale is a beautiful small bay, near, you guessed, a nunnery.  That’s right, the whole place rings of tranquility as little ladies covered in blue dresses, red sashes and white habits sneak in and out quietly in the afternoon.  The water is warm and fish hang out close to the shore.  Because of the early morning rains, no one else has bothered to make the trip up to Visale.

We spend some much needed time in the water, gossiping and girlifying in the sun and surf.  Only the occasional movement of a wayward chicken or the small, slight footsteps of a nun intrudes on our own private paradise.

And that’s what Visale is: paradise.  There is a bit of a break about 5 metres offshore to the right side of the inlet, but there is nothing to bother the almost lake like quality of the bay.  The sun glints off of the water and we cackle like a pack of witches.  All and all, a good day.

James comes for a visit and takes us out to Bonege for some snorkeling.  I stay on the beach; I’m sick, despite the fact that I refuse to admit that I am sick.  So I sit with my large, Scarlett O’haraesque sun hat watching people play in the water. 

It gives me time to think of the people in Christchurch, who are still knee deep in crap.  I feel guilty that I get to sun myself whilst my friends and colleagues have to work hard and then return to damaged homes and pissed off communities.  I miss them and think of them often and wonder when I will see them again after my self imposed exile.

Anyway, this week was also about queuing things up for May.  In May I will be:

·        

Doing my PADI course (finally).

·         Going to Temotu and the Reef Islands (woot!)

·         Going to the Spear Festival in Makira (double woot woot!)

The month of May is looking like quite the busy one. Tessa, the Greek Doctor and myself have finally had the guts to put everything down on a calendar, the Casa Turchese social calendar and quickly realize that the first two weeks of May are completely booked up.

Let the May Madness begin…

Solomon Island Recipe of the Week: Chilli Taiyo (tinned tuna) with Chinese noodles

With Tessa and co gone for nine days, Casa Turchese was mine, all mine!  That means it’s time to experiment with foods that the housemates might look down on, which means only one thing: adventure in tinned meats!

Anyone who reads the recipes on this blog will figure out that tuna or bonito or taiyo (tinned tuna) plays a vital role in the Solomon Islander diet.  Whether fresh or tinned, it’s a staple in village life. 

Now, being the western consumer that I am, I bought loads of tinned tuna in New Zealand and the U.S., never giving one thought to where this tuna might be coming from.   A LOT of the world’s tuna comes from these beautiful islands and it is tinned here locally, with new labels put on it upon arrival to its destinations around the world.

The fishing industry in the Solomons is, well…like a bad marriage.  Developed or wealthier countries come in, take the fish and when the fisheries crumble, the fishing fleet moves on to more fertile waters.  This leaves villages without their major food source.  It can take years for the fishery to recover; sometimes it never does.  This makes villagers more reliant on external food sources to survive, like hard navy biscuits and…tinned meats.  This, of course, is an over simplification but again, like many developed/developing country relationships, it’s a one way street with the locals often seeing little or no benefit of their resources. 

I digress.

Anyway, I purchased a tin of chili tuna a few months back and without a soul in the house, it was time to try it 

out with some nice thin, almost linguini like Chinese noodles I purchased in the discount bin at Wings supermarket for 10 solomon dollars (I do love the discount bin at Wings…).  Hey I’m a volunteer, I live on discount bins and at the Bulk Food Shop.

About the Chilli Tuna: usually packed in vegetable oil with three or four local, very hot little chili peppers.  It’s yummy but you can use plain old tuna and just put chilli in separately. 

So here is my recipe:

Chili Taiyo (Tuna) with noodles

·         1 can of chili taiyo (preferably white flesh tuna)

·         1 clove of garlic

·         ½ onion

·         Smiggen of veggie oil (I mean just a wee bit.  The tins of tuna here are packed in oil already.)

·         Fresh basil leaves

·         1 lime

·         100 grams of noodles per person

·         Salt and pepper to taste.

Directions:

1.       Chop up the garlic and onion.

2.       Put the garlic and onion in a fry pan on low heat with a bit of veggie oil. 

3.       Open the tin of tuna.  Once the garlic and onion are slightly browned, put the tuna in the pan.

4.       Boil a pot of water for the noodles.  Put in salt and noodles.

5.       Stir the tuna, garlic and onions. 

6.       Put in the fresh basil leaves.

7.       Cut the lime and squeeze juice into the tuna mixture.

8.       Heat for about five minutes or until noodles are almost ready.

9.       Pour noodles in colander and drain all water.  Make sure the noodles are slightly undercooked as it will finish cooking in the hot fry pan.

10.   Put noodles from colander into hot fry pan with tuna mixture.  Mix all around, letting the noodles cook slightly in the tuna mixture. 

11.   After about two or three minutes, serve in bowls.

Serve with gin and tonic or coconut water with lime or mint.  Make sure to eat on your balcony overlooking the sea; it does wonders for the soul.

Oh My FAQ! (Frequently Asked Question (FAQ) about Stilettos in the Solomons)

I’ve started a frequently asked question section for the blog because I do get questions from time to time from friends, family, acquaintances and the odd internet stalker who has nothing better to do than read my blog. 

So here it goes:  

Q. Do you, in fact, wear stilettos in the Solomons?

A. Yes.  Only indoors; the roads and/or sidewalks are very uneven. The risk of ankle trauma here is high, as is the possibility of going ass over face and revealing your under things. 

Q. How many pairs of stilettos do you own?

A. Well, I brought with me one pair of red, crocodile skin stripper ones.  These are super slutty and I love them. I own a few wedges as well.

Q. You have typos.  You suck.

A. Yes I know.  I write a lot very quickly and so far no one wants to edit my stuff.  Sorry.

Q. I am new to this whole blog…give me a summary…Dance, monkey, DANCE!

A. Okay! So in August of last year, I left my work and city etc…to travel around the world to take up a volunteer assignment in the Solomon Islands for one year.  I started my assignment in October of last year (after having a blast getting here) and it’s been a full on experience ever since.  If you read the blog, you will pick up that I was married once. A lot of people do a volunteer assignment as a way to flee bad situations at home and I do not recommend that.  Development work is something I have wanted to do for a very long time, long before the marriage ended. While being here is healing, it is in no way my sole purpose for coming here.  Neither is it the reason I write this blog. So, sorry but if you are looking for salacious details or me bashing my ex husband or the marriage or figuring out what happened etc…look elsewhere.  I don’t do that, it is crass and cruel and not very helpful to anybody, especially me. My ex is a lovely fellah, that’s why I married him in the first place and I wish him all the best in his new life.   

Ehem.  Anyway, this is no Eat, Pray, Love, people…it’s more like Eat strange things, live in a country with huge development issues, party, and do good stuff sometimes. 

Q. Why don’t you talk more about your work?

A. While I find my work personally very rewarding, most people would find it slightly boring.  You don’t read my blog to find out that I wrote a magnificent report today….that would put you into a coma.  So I don’t write about it.

Q. I get the feeling that all you do is party.  Is that true?

A. Kind of. Interesting things happen at parties, which is why I blog about it.  But I probably go to about one or two significant parties a week.  Because there is no television, really, here, dinner parties etc…are a huge part of life here.  And I like that very much.

Q. Who is your host organization?

A. If you know me in real life, you probably know who my host organization is.  I don’t reveal it because I don’t want to ever embarrass my host organization by what I write.  Sorry, but you ain’t findin out through this blog.

Q. How often do you update your blog?

A. Usually I update with a summary of weekly events on a Monday or Tuesday.  Then I do a Solomon Islands Recipe of the Week on Friday.  Am still toying with the idea of a section call “Sh$%t that scares my parents about the Solomons”.

Q. Do you have a boyfriend?

A. That’s none of your business.

Q. Can I be your boyfriend?

A. Maybe.  The guy running the beetlenut stand down the road offered me a pig and as many coconuts as I could carry to be his girlfriend.  If you can top that, we might be in business.

Q. Where are you from?

A. I would define myself as an Amerikiwi.  So I was brought up in the U.S., in the best state ever…WASHINGTON! Not D.C….anyway, it’s a badass state…BUT I lived in New Zealand for 10 years, which is one fantastic country, in the great city of Christchurch.  My mom is a frenchie so I have heaps of aunties, uncles, cuzzie bros, etc…who are French.  Which means I can say “pass the stinky cheese” in French quite successfully.  I also hung out in Hawaii for a bit.  I feel really fortunate to have lived in the some very beautiful places.

Charmingly, my good friend Mike from Ohio pointed out that the more I drink, the more I sound like a Kiwi…which is odd and the reason I stopped drinking. 

Q. Why did you go back to Christchurch for the earthquake?

A. Why, indeed.  It has something to do with work, something to do with my heart and something to do with my overwhelming sense of self importance.  But I love Christchurch like a mad thing, it’s a great place, no matter what you have heard and every day it gets better and better.

Q. You don’t seem to write much about development issues in the Solomons or politics.  Why is that?

A. Because writing about politics can get me into trouble.  And the politics here are diverse and complex, like everywhere else.  Only the politicians here tend to have a criminal record of some description.  So I will remain silent…

I am happy to talk about development issues when it pops up but I do steer away from this for several reasons.  First, this blog is seriously first person, observation stuff.  I don’t quote other people or put other publications on my blog to make you think I’m smarter than I am.  This blog is about my experiences and observations living here, as well as my journey throughout this year.   

Also, development issues are extremely complex, like politics.  To put these issues in a blog is, in a sense, 

treating these issues as if they can be solved easily.  The issues can’t.  So I tend to steer away from things except for my occasional rant.

Q. How do I help in the Solomons?

A. Good question.  Email me and we will talk.

Q. Does everyone get fake names in your blog?

A. Yes.  For the most part, everyone gets a fake name. I like to protect the innocent (and not so innocent).

Q. How do you choose fake names?

A. I used to let people choose, but that got me into trouble (Maverick is the worst). So now it’s usually by random association.   There is some method to my madness but revealing that would be potentially revealing the real name of the person.

Q. Can I have a fake name?

A. Maybe.  

Q. Can I stay with you in the Solomons?

A. Depends on how much I like you.  But something can probably be worked out, if you let me call you Felipe and you become my houseboy (or girl).  Duties include: fanning me with a palm frond, fetching me coconuts and rubbing my feet. 

Q. Do you like the food there?

A. Yes, it is very good.  I find Melanesian cuisine full of surprises.  I love going to the markets and getting fresh, organic fruits and veggies.  I miss parsley and potatoes (you know, the white kind. Sweet potatoes abound here). However, the seafood cannot be beat.  Forget about beef.  Chicken and pork are okay but kinda expensive.  So I try to eat as simply as I can because I can’t afford the expensive stuff.  

Q. Is there a McDonald’s there? Subway? Arby's? WHITECASTLE????

A. Er, no.  Although I am not sure I want to write this because we have NO chain fast food outlets here. Long may it stay that way.

Q. Have you had malaria?

A. Not that I am aware of.

Q. Have you had round worm?

A. Probably.

Q. Have you had syphilis?  I heard Paul Gauguin had it when he lived in Tahiti and he died from it.  That’s what I heard, anyway.

A. No, not according to the travel doctor and really that’s none of your business.

Q. Are you a really shallow person?  Why don’t you do more advocacy in your blog to bring out issues that we are unaware of?  Why? WHY?

A. Aren’t we all shallow and self centered?  Look, I don’t write this blog so you can think I’m a super intelligent, caring wonder woman.  I write it so I can make my friends and family laugh and so that they know, at least once a week, that I am alive and well and that I have not been cursed by witchdoctors in Temotu or had my head removed by headhunters in Munda.  Yet.

Q. Do you like being there?

A. Generally, yes.  I like it less when Christchurch has earthquakes and more, you know, normal stuff going on but yes I do like it here.

Q. So is this like Sex and the Solomons?

A. Yes. Sort of, minus the sex, plus the flip flops.  My mom reads this stuff people!  I like to think of this blog as more of a Bridget Jones does the Solomons because I never want my humour to be about making fun of other people but more about myself, because I get myself in some crazy situations.

Q. What are the people like?

A. “The people”…hmm…can’t answer that one, it’s too complicated.  Ask again later (I consulted my magic eight ball before constructing that answer).

Q. Where to you live?

A. Somewhere in Honiara.

Q. What island is that on?

A. Guadalcanal.

Q. What country is that in?

A. The Solomon Islands.

Q. Where is that?

A. Between Papua New Guinea and Vanuatu.

Q. Where are those countries?

A. North of Australia.

Q. Really?  Isn’t Australia full of poisonous snakes and sharks and stuff.

A. Yes.  I guess it is.  I haven’t spent much time there, actually.  I went to Brisbane a couple of times and Sydney twice.  Am very fond of Sydney.  I would like to go to Melbourne at some point but I also want to go to Scott Base in Antartica.  If I go, I’ll blog it is as Stilettos on the Ice or Stilettos and Penguins or Stilettos at Scott Base…Anyway, clearly, some dreams aren’t coming true.

Q. I actually don’t know where Australia is. I’ve met a few Australians and I don’t like them.

A. I really can’t talk to you anymore.

Q. Really?  Why not?

A. Because. 

Okay, that’s it.  If you have a question for me, email me and I’ll do my best to answer it and do another FAQ.

 

All the best,

S

Breathe In, Breathe out...

I arrive back in Honiara from my time in Christchurch slightly disoriented.  I speak in monotone; Tessa says it’s disturbing and she wishes I would come back.  It takes me two days to crack a joke and start smiling again. 

The thing with working in large scale disasters is that, no matter how long you have done it for or how professional you are, it does wear on you.  The adrenalin and the let down are killer.  I’ve made a rule with myself not to make any major decisions either during or after (for about a month) of working in a disaster area, if I can help it.  The last time I was this wiped was just after I spent eight days in Samoa during the tsunami, which was exhausting for a whole different set of reasons. 

Emotions are raw working in such conditions, at least for me, and my temper flares quickly.  Everything becomes really black and white and I become a little bit of a fascist about people and things.  My empathy flies out the window for people for a good little while. 

Tessa looks after me the best she can but I’m still a bit numb.  Finally I liven up a bit when we head to the Car Wash (kava bar) on Friday.

She turns to me and gives me one of her famous smiles:

“This is Solomon Islands, Part 2, Sara.  Let the fun begin,” she grins.

Tessa is right; she usually is.  I hate her (slightly) for her ability to do that.  

My mind is still racing through about the complete dissonance between Christchurch and Honiara. 

One of the major things I noticed in Christchurch: old people.  You would be hard pressed to find a person over the age of 60 in Honiara.  Life expectancy is 65 in the Solomon’s but that’s a pretty random guess; most people don’t have birth certificates, so they don’t know what year they were born.  There is no such thing as gerontology in the Solomons (sorry, Mom, you are out of luck here! For those who don’t know, Mom owns some retirement homes. )

The other thing, Solomons hasn’t had any surgical staples since November.  One of our staff members almost dies because of the inability to get her or anyone else into surgery.  How does a country go without such basic equipment?

The problem with being away and coming back again is that one develops, as my friend Daphne puts it so well, rightitis.  Simply put, rightitis is when you know something is right and people are doing the opposite.  Or the situation is the opposite of right and you must, MUST speak up.  Rightitis is when you just can’t help yourself on being, you know, right.

Anyway, I get back and my favorite public health doctor in the Sollies, Dr. Mark is sitting quietly in his office. I bounce in there, pronouncing foolishly:

“Man, have I had a hell of a month,” I giggle out.

“I got you beat,” he says, barely turning around.

Turns out, he did.  The month started off charmingly with a car accident.  Then, due to a visa mix up in Vanatu, he spent a week in jail in Fiji.  There is a whole blog story.  Then he got some gastro bug.

“Yep, you got me beat Mark,” I said, slightly disappointed.

With that, I left his office.  Life in the equatorial Pacific isn’t always as much of blast as it might seem. 

Tessa, Mackenzie and the Greek Doctor leave on Sunday to Maurovo Lagoon.  As much I want to go, I just got back from six weeks of heavy lifting.  The house is blissfully empty.  I pad around in my new flip flops and silky boxers I bought in Christchurch. I read.  I don’t talk and no one bugs me.  It is bliss.

Of course, my bliss is shortly broken by James calling and wanting to spend the night due to a scheduling mishap.  Internally, I groan but I can’t let a wantok down.  James is good company and we invite another volunteer, Luke, over for some whisky.  Luke is a newly arrived Kiwi boy whose loves include the Daily Show, which endears him to me immediately.

The next night is total bliss as I come home over the next week to an empty house.  I needed a people break in a big way.  I hang out with my new Sony Reader, which has a stack of Sookie Stackhouse novels (nothing better than pure trash to get your mind off of rubble and stuff) on it.  I paint my toenails and fingernails red.  I do girly stuff.  Feels wonderful.   

Daphne keeps me company one night and a good friend Viola comes over as well.  I enjoy just catching up and talking about life in general and Christchurch specifically.  Emotions still feel pretty raw but I start to settle in.

(Parental warning: this next part might upset you, Mom and Dad.  Please skip over this part).

I walk as much as I can because as a volunteer, I can’t afford a car or pay for a taxi everyday to come home from work.  As I walk up my hill one day, a scruffy looking guy with a huge afro crosses the street to do…something to me.  He tries to stop me, but I ignore him, listening happily to my music.  He tries again, I ignore him more and just quickly walk pass him.

I hear laughter behind me, which means my tactic worked.  He wanted to enrage me or get me to do something that gave him cause to react.  I didn’t and he left me alone.   I spoke with some other Solomon Island men and they a) recommended to keep doing that and b) to let them know when it happens again and this person will be taken care of.  Gotta love the wantok system.

In Christchurch, not a single male harassed me, call out to me and slapped the window of the car I was driving in.  Here the men are aggressive to the point of intimidating.  Even earthquake damaged everything seems so easy in Christchurch; I don’t have to roam the dusty streets looking for the most basic items all over the city.

But here I can take time to breath, to decompress.  I can sit on my balcony and relax…

After my self imposed exile, I get an invite to my neighbor’s compound for a party.  Now, not to give too much away, but my neighbor is a lovely fellow…with a very, very large…compound.  Seriously; palm trees line his driveway; he has an entire liquor closet.  He has a pool.  And very famous parties that include staying up late playing band hero, wearing wigs and typically partying the night away.

I would hate my neighbor if he wasn’t such a likeable fellow, damn him! 

The party is exactly what I needed.

The next day I go out with Stan, Jean, Jean’s sister Bonnie, some young boys and fellow volunteer Luke.

We go down to the river in the Queen Elizabeth National Park (I know what you are thinking, there are national parks in the Sollies? Yes.  Yes there are).  We drive through the jungle; large thick bush line the road with huge ginger flowers jutting out from the trees.  After a 20 minute decent that is decidedly four wheel drive, we arrive at a stunning river bank.  There are huge sheer cliffs lined with moss and greenery.  I can see, quite easily, beautiful fish glinting at me through the water. 

We spend the afternoon wading, swimming and even did a bit of fishing from the bank.  Finding live bait proved to be more difficult than I had imagined.  I go home, sadly, with no fish.  In the evening, its back to ye olde poker nights and suddenly I feel like I’m back into it, enjoying my life here again in the Solomons.

Luke and I make it to the Hammock Beach on Saturday afternoon, which is famous for, you know, having hammocks.  After several swims, I sit back and gently rock…until the rocking gets a bit too much; I feel like someone is pushing the tree back and forwards.  I look behind me and no one is there.  I get out of the hammock and look at Luke’s truck.  It is swaying; as is the local shelter next to me…the whole world is swaying.  I think, instantly, that of course it’s an earthquake and I am cursed.   After six weeks of aftershocks in Christchurch, I’m intimately familiar with earthquakes now.    

The earthquake lasts a very long time and, based on the type of shaking, I figure it’s pretty far away.  I’m right; it’s a 6.9 about 120 kms away in Makira province.  One person dies in Malaita.  I motion to Luke to get out of the water and watch the horizon for any big waves coming in.  Which, I know is totally pointless because by the time you see a tsunami, its kinda too late.  But I don’t want to make Luke leave just because of my paranoia. 

Nothing happens.  No tsunami.  Thank the gods.

I spend Easter with my Solomon Island family, Jean and Stan eating Easter Pie.  I’ve never had Easter Pie but apparently it consists ground mince and red sauce.  It’s yummy.  Jean even makes homemade cottage cheese!  I am beyond impressed.

The next day is Anzac Day.  Yes, I pull my sad, sorry bones out of bed at 4:30 a.m. to attend the morning ceremony.  I attend ANZAC day because, as an Amerikiwi, I feel that I should do my bit to show my respect for my adopted home country, New Zealand.

There are about 400 of us, gathered under a marquee, eyes still crusty from sleep.  Songs are sung, prayers are said.  Some Maori fellah stands there silently without a shirt on.  Men in uniform abound (um…I know it’s a special day…but seriously…WOW!)….Sorry, sorry…I got distracted…

Ehem.

Yep, am pretty much back to normal.