One of the best things about living in the Solomon Islands is being able to go out of Honiara and spend some time in a village, seeing and living the way most of the people here live. It's easy to think Honiara is the norm when you live here, but when you get to go out a bit, you see the Solomons as it really is.
And as it really is, I like it.
I was really blessed to be able to join a team who went to the village of Samasodu on the west coast of the island of Isabel. It is actually marked on the map so if you own one check it out.
I had never been on a boat for longer than maybe 5 hours, so the expected 16 on a good day or 20 on a bad day trip was a bit daunting to think about.
Turns out it was a bad day. A really bad day.
We boarded in Honiara the ship at 5pm on a Thursday night.
When it got dark we slept, although it took a while to get Theresa to sleep in the cockroach infested cabin. I have to remind myself that sleeping in the cockroach infested cabin was better than sleeping outside on the deck.
It was pretty rough between Guadalcanal and Isabel. Jair didn't come with us, so I was trying not to vomit and trying to settle Theresa down to sleep. I was very thankful when she did sleep, because then I could lie flat, think about sleeping and try not to vomit.
No vomit. Yay.
Then after a while I noticed that the ship wasn't moving. It was about 2am and in muffled voices I heard that we were at Kavanga - the bottom of Isabel, but that the ship was broken down so they were repairing it.
I drifted back to sleep and woke up while it was still dark, took a look outside, could see water running, so went back in, assuming we were happily sailing up the coast.
I woke up a while later, still dark and looked on the otherside of the ship this time to see - men playing cards by the light of kerosene lamps on the Kavanga wharf - and to hear - the unmistakeable sound of mechanics trying to fix the ship.
The next morning I got out at 6 or whatever, went for a look around the buzzing (not) township of Kavanga. The streets were lifeless, but for a few chickens pecking the ground for food.
I think it was 8:30am when we left Kavanga and started the long, torturously slow journey up the coast. Every time someone wanted to get off, the ship stopped, waited while a smaller dingy powered out to drop them and their cargo off, and then chugged away. Really chugged because evidently it wasn't quite 100% so it limped up the coast.
At 3:30pm on Friday, Samasodu was in sight, and that same little dingy took us the village.
So you see, it was a bad day for the ship ride, over the expected 20 hours.
Anyway, we were greeted by naked boys painted with red mud and wielding sticks, spears and axes. Theresa was terrified and for the next few days wouldn't leave the house without asking whether the warriors were going to come and attack us.
Anyway, I'm getting a bit side tracked because what I wanted to write about was some of the things I love about daily life in a village.
Morning and evening prayer services.
The brightly coloured inside of the church.
Children singing.
Children praying.
Children playing.
I love the outdoor showers. Obviously people swim (swim is the pijin words for wash) with their clothes on. The funniest little experience was that I was chatting to some women and I asked them whether it was true that when you hear the beating of the drum in the evening, you had to quickly go inside so that people could have their showers in peace. That's what the other expat had told me. The ladies laughed at this. Of course it wasn't true. I thought so, I said, because no where else in the Solomon Islands do you have to retreat into your house when the drum goes for shower time. I mean, it's not like people shower naked or anything. What a ridiculous idea. I explained that that is what the expat probably thought.
The ladies thought it was hilarious. Couldn't stop laughing about it. And eventually as I went to leave, I said to them with a wink, "Well, I better go now, I heard the drum go." I left them in stitches.
I love that big kids grow up cuddling little kids. Older pikininis often have a responsibility to look after younger pikininis. Now there is a flaw in the system when it happens to often. A ten year old can't adequately discipline and train a four year old - the wallop the four year olds often tend to get from their older siblings doesn't seem to do much in the way of teaching obedience in the younger one. Nor does a seven year old always giving the two year old what they want help the two year old learn not to be greedy.
However, to me there is something very special in this culture in the way children are taught to treasure and look after younger children. It brings maturity, teaches selflessness, encourages responsibility. I find in our culture, it seems to me, we teach our children to treasure themselves - their own experiences, their toys, their right to do what they want. If it's a hassle for them to find a way to entertain the two year old, oh well. They're only kids. Let them just be kids. If they don't want to have to play with that annoying neighbour next door who has no other friends but desperately wants someone to play with, ok, fine deary, go back to your crayons instead. Instead of sharing their time, we teach them to hoard it. Instead of sharing their toys, we teach them to hide them, in case they get broken. Instead of growing selflessness in them, we let them stay selfish.
Then again, maybe it's just that that's what we do as adults, so naturally that's what we teach our kids.
In any case, I love it about Solomon Island culture, that the girls will have a baby falling asleep in their arms, that older boys will play soccer with the little ones who have just learnt to run, that when a younger kid comes along, they don't run off to play, but take her hand and let her join them.
I love sitting down with someone just storying, passing them time talking.
Like the time spent in this lady's kitchen, chatting, while she stripped the fern leaves off the stem for their dinner. The sun shone in hot, but the wind, blowing in the open sides, cooled us while we talked.
While we talked she told me about this nifty way of cooking.
This is a bucket, lined with concrete and it has a grate half way through. For people who don't have time or access to lots of wood for making a fire to cook with, and who don't have money for a gas cooker, they can take (or buy) a whole lot of wood, burn it, then motu then charcoal. Motu is the local oven - cooking on hot stones on top of the ground then covering the hot stones and the thing you're cooking.
Once the charcoal is cooked in the motu it will be dry and a whole sack will last two months if you budget it carefully. When you want to cook, you put a few pieces of charcoal on the grate, add some fire and put your pot on top.
Ingenious.
I love it!
And I love that in a village you pass the time just passing time.
Those slow deep breathes of time infuse life into our swamped, harried days.
