Out of Honiara

8 seater plane to Marau Sound, Guady

Getting to most of the community learning centres that we work with in Solomon Islands is no easy feat. A typical journey to the provinces can involve a small 8 passenger plane, followed by an 8 seater boat with an outboard motor (referred to as OBM), followed by dug out canoe, wading through raging rapids or a hike into the jungle. In most of these scenarios it's better to pack light.

There is something very homely about boarding a small plane and being able to see the pilot and all the controls. It's "a more personal experience" when the pilot climbs aboard, checks the doors are shut properly, gives the safety demonstration, and comments on the weather and expected flight time before settling into his seat and starting the engine. Flights depart for most provincial capitals 3 times a week, and the arrival of the flight from Honiara is a community event, with people turning up to watch the landing, even if they don't have family members arriving or departing.

When you disembark, you find yourself in the middle of a large field, with a few people gathered around, and most likely no airport as such. It's important to be met at the airport, as getting from the airport to the port can often be an adventure in itself. At Kira Kira airport in Makira Province you have to either squeeze on to the back of a large communal truck, or organise a truck of your own, because the port is quite a distance away. Luckily you won't get bored waiting for your truck, because one of the locals makes it his business to greet every flight coming in, chatting away to passengers in sign language, and offering to carry bags for a small fee.

Once you're at the port, then it's a matter of organising a boat and securing enough fuel to last you for the return trip to wherever you're going. Given that fuel usage depends on how angry the sea is that day, the fuel discussion is always a lengthy one. Then it's time to board. One boat ride in Makira was so rough, I truly believed I would die. Rain was pounding our faces, while the boat rocked from side to side and waves crashed against the side of the boat. The captain and crew were excitedly shouting directives to one another and I expressed some concern. "Oh, don't worry", they assured me. "If we were really in danger, we wouldn't be talking at all". OK. My petite colleague told me that she once found herself literally flying from one end of the boat to the other in the bad weather. I was secretly glad to be on the heavier side of average in this case!

Dug out canoe for crossing difficult channel, Makira Province

When your boat approaches the shore, however, the journey is still not complete. To reach some villages requires a 30 minute hike inland, while others are closer to the shore. One village I stayed at was spread across both sides of a raging river, and the only way to get to my accommodation was to wade across the river. After much discussion, it was decided that I needed the assistance of a very skinny pre-teen boy. Another time, I was assisted across a river by a dug-out canoe, expertly steered by another very young man. My colleagues told me that I couldn't be trusted to sit in the canoe without capsizing it AND be responsible for my own bag, so my bag was taken across separately.

Normally arrival of newcomers at a village is heralded by calls on a shell or pipe, and then warriers turn up pretending to attack you while the other villagers gather about and help secure the boat or say hello. Garlands of flowers and speeches often follow. Normally I am drenched from head to toe, busting to "pay a short kastom visit" and a bit wobbly on foot during these prestigious welcomes, but always glad to have arrived safe and sound. I try not to think right away about the return journey.

Time to toughen up

Honiara is not the worst place in the world to be. But it can be tough. In the course of one day I managed to get groped in the middle of town in broad daylight by one young man, another threw his melon peel in the direction of my crotch in an intentional way, and in the evening I was harassed by two drunk men, each apologising for the behaviour of the other. And that wasn’t even the day I got pickpocketed. It’s become a challenge to get through a day in town without such eventualities. 

However, it’s not only in Honiara that you can be surprised and scared. Within days of the pickpocket experience, I was off on my first site visit to a village half an hour’s hike in from the beach in East Guadalcanal. The walk itself was not overly demanding, but nevertheless, I was looking forward to arriving at the village. Suddenly, out of the bushes came a group of warriors dressed in the traditional dress of leaves, and surrounded me. One grabbed his hands around my neck and held on firmly. Others were shouting and seemed very angry. Suddenly my colleague was nowhere to be seen. I began to panic and fear the worst – that I was under attack. Then, as suddenly as it began, my neck was released, and everyone started shaking hands and ushering me into a clearing where the whole community had gathered for a welcome ceremony. I have to admit that there were tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat from the surprise of it all. When my colleague re-appeared, and I told him in a wavering voice that it might have been nice to have been warned about this little welcome ceremony, he simply shrugged and bemoaned the fact that he had been unable to get a satisfactory photograph of the event. I guess I just have to toughen up and get used to it all.

In the life of a child

Noah and Auntie Leash

Just over a year ago I became an aunt and have been privileged to experience the joy that little Noah gives me when he smiles and the excitement of watching him achieve a new milestone. I've also become an adopted aunt to a few children over the years, and enjoy selecting meaningful gifts for them, receiving beautiful drawings in return, reading and telling stories, the games we play, and spontaneous cuddles. While I don't have any children of my own, it's important to me to be involved in the lives of the children in my life. As one wise person said:

"A hundred years from now, it will not matter what kind of car I drove, what kind of house I lived in, how much money I had in the bank...but the world may be a better place because I made a difference in the life of a child." - Author unknown

I remember some of the adults outside of my immediate family who made a real difference in my life when I was a child. Peter sent me postcards from all the countries he visited, and modeled living with integrity and passion. Colin quietly encouraged me to be adventurous and showed me that men can be kind and outdoorsy at the same time. Rowe announced to a group of us that even her bras were second hand and got me thinking about living simply. Mrs H was a teacher who treated all her students with respect even if they didn't get the high marks and showed me the power of believing in someone. Bruce was enthusiastic about camping trips and hands free phones  and taught me that being an adult can still be fun. Marg remembered our birthdays with thoughtful gifts and was genuinely interested in our lives. She taught me the power of unconditional love.

Aletia skipping with swirls, by Lily E

So, as the next generation goes about the business of growing up, I hope I can make even half the difference in some of their lives that others have made in mine. I guess time will tell. My wish is that I might always find the time to play, listen, encourage, and believe in. And that my life might be patterns and examples of integrity, depth, fun and kindness.

ANZAC Day - J'accuse

I will admit it. I am the kind of person who likes to commemorate ANZAC Day by listening to Eric Bogle's song "And the band played Walzing Matilda" or Redgum's "I was only 19". These songs speak of the horror, the lies, the blood and the trauma of battles fought by Australians in far off lands. And they remind us that soldiers, whether they live or die, are casualties of war.

In Europe they seem to do a better job of teaching children about the futility and reality of violent conflict. I was reading that in France the message is "J'accuse" meaning I accuse the men, the decision makers, the war, the whole thing of being so incredibly stupid. In German schools, they teach children the full story of the war, and don't hide from the evil decisions of a past regime.

Yet, in Australia ANZAC Day seems to have turned into a glorification of war. When I attended the Dawn Service one year, I was horrified to see private school boys parading around Martin Place in their cadet uniforms while middle aged men talked in fake somber tones about the justification of war. Clearly none of them had actually been in the trenches, and yet it seemed that they were using the old men who had been through so much as justification for current deployments in Afghanistan and Iraq. They spoke of the courage and the sacrifice of the young war heroes of almost a century ago, and suggested to us that they had been fighting for God, and for our Country.

But in those tales of heroic deaths, and sacrifice and supposedly having God on our side, where is the space for the soldiers who were really, really scared? Or those courageous enough to refuse to take part? Or those who began to doubt the existence of God because of what they'd seen humanity do to one another? Or those who returned home legless, armless, blind or insane, and were expected to just get on with life?

So, when we say "lest we forget", I hope we mean that we will listen to the digger's stories, and always remember and acknowledge the experience of every soldier in every war, whether heroic, tragic or just plain miserable. I also hope we mean that we promise to work towards a world where these experiences really are part of our history and not our future.

Remembering

The gang, back in 1999 or so

Almost every Easter long weekend during my 20s was spent with Quaker friends at Werona in Kangaroo Valley. The things I loved about these camps were the fun, the depth and the sense of community that we created. I remember epic rounds of 500, laughing so hard over a ridiculous game of dares or mafia, swimming in the bitterly cold river, massage chains, and sleep-overs in the cave. Over the cooking, washing up or later on by the fire we discussed the meaning of life, the pursuit of meaningful vocations, what we thought Jesus was really trying to say and the struggle to live with integrity. We shared honestly about our fears, hopes and dreams for the future. These deep discussions sustained and enriched me. And through the laughter, the fun and the deep sharing, we built a community. I felt genuinely accepted for who I was and knew I was a valued member of the group even if I hadn't showered for days, was wearing my daggiest clothes and was covered in ticks.

Remembering at Werona, 2012

This Easter weekend, we returned to Kangaroo Valley to farewell our friend Juchie. Since his death in January, I have reconnected with so many beautiful people who knew him, seen photos and heard stories, and have been reminded of the love that still connects us. That same sense of community returned, and many of us felt sheepish that we had let one another drift from our immediate circles, and particularly sad that we had let our beautiful friend slip through the cracks. Now I am wondering how we can honour his memory with integrity, without pretending he was more than he really was by placing him on a pedestal or diminishing him by only remembering the way that he died and not the way that he lived. And how can we re-create that sense of community, of fun, of depth as we move on from youth and into the next stage of life?

In the bag

Having spent the past few days reading Bill Bryson’s account of his travels in Australia, and finding hilarity in the details of everyday life as experienced by a foreigner, I’ve decided to re-invigorate my blog with a few tales of sporadic travels to the Pacific. The fact that I’m here for work means that I need to be a bit circumspect about which stories I tell, but I thought I’d start with a little glimpse into packing for the trip, which should be harmless enough. A friend who travels frequently for work suggested I start up a separate "Solomons Bag" so that I'm ready to go whenever I need to suddenly relocate. This bag includes typical items such as travel pillow, mosquito net, all in one bed sheet in the style that my grandparents used when hostelling around the world, all-purpose plug, packets of tissues, mosquito repellant and travel wipes as well as a small first aid kit and a modest supply of pharmaceutical products. 

I also try to include thoughtful but easily transportable gifts for when visiting communities, such as handicrafts as I have no interest in adding kitsch, plastic, touristy items to a country that is already riddled with Chinese shops selling almost any piece of plastic crap you care to name. Incidentally, those Chinese shops are an anomaly in themselves. While we are familiar with the Two Dollar Shop idea in Australia, these shops have all the same crap but a slightly different set up. The Chinese manager sits up atop a high seat not unlike those used by tennis umpires, which is surrounded by a small cage. They manage the money while the locals are trusted only with running around getting the items and passing them to the umpire – sorry, cashier - for processing. A few years ago, there were riots in Chinatown, and a number of these shops were destroyed. It seems that the management didn’t see any correlation between the riots and the way they treat their staff, as they seem to be following the same management model as before the riots.

I always bring muesli bars and chocolate, but have recently added herbal tea bags and hot chocolate sachets to the consumables section of the list. A sarong (lava lava) is a must as it can double as a shade cloth, bed sheet, skirt, modesty swimsuit, light weight towel and more. When I went shopping in Sydney for suitable clothing for the Pacific, I was served by a Polynesian girl who sent me on my way with a few loose and flowing tops that have become the staples of my wardrobe over here, and a pair of pink court shoes which she suggested would be ideal, together with a short black number, for meeting dignitaries. Given that everyone in the Solomons wears flip flops (referred to here as slippers) regardless of whether they are travelling, working, or meeting dignitaries, and I can’t really see myself traipsing through mud in a pair of pink court shoes at the best of times, they have remained at the bottom of my cupboard at home. Of course, the list is a work in progress, and I’m always looking for ideas to add to it. Just the other day I heard somebody describe how they removed the mud from their shoes using their “second toothbrush”, and made a mental note to myself. I just need a way to make it clearly distinguishable from my teeth toothbrush. Another colleague swears by his billum (woollen woven shoulder bag – PNG style) as a great bag for getting about town. Even though it’s an open bag, it kindof closes in at each end, so if you hold it a certain way it’s almost impossible for anyone to pickpocket you. I procured one as soon as I could.

It’s ironic, though, that while we foreigners are getting geared up with local bilums, slippers and lava lavas, Solomon Islanders are increasingly wearing western clothes. Bales of donated second hand clothes and accessories are brought in on boats, and people can purchase sought after items such as t-shirts, women’s trousers, and bags at a reasonable price. On Saturday mornings when it is announced that new bales have arrived, the kalico (meaning clothing, not necessarily calico) shops are crowded with hopeful shoppers in search of a bargain. As a result, I often see men walking around town with a lady’s handbag casually slung over their shoulder or around their neck. I guess it just goes to show that it's not about the type of bag you have or even how you wear it. It's what's on the inside that counts!

Let's be fair dinkum

Last night's debate pissed me off. And I'm being fair dinkum when I say that. When Tony Abbott began by mentioning his wife and kids, it didn't just feel like a dig at Julia, it felt like a dig at anyone who doesn't fit into the conventional mould. Julia herself isn't much better, taking any opportunity to be photographed with children, presumably in the hope that she will appear "family-friendly". I don't give a rats arse about how many children a policitan has, or how many they say hello to in one day, I just want to know what their policies are on parental leave, abortion rights and gay marriage. But, sadly, it feels as if good policy plays a poor second to election victory - a goal made easier by fuelling the fears of "everyday, hardworking, Australians".

And that brings me to the whole border protection issue. It seems that, whichever way the polls go on election day, asylum seekers risk again being treated as illegal terrorists at worst and opportunistic economic migrants at best. The fact that the number of people who sought asylum in Australia in 2009 was way less than 1% of our total population and when finally processed were found overwhelmingly to be legitimately fleeing persecution due to race, religion, nationality or political persuation seems irrelevant.

I wonder whether the latest Government is "losing its way". I was proud when the Rudd Government ratified the Kyoto Protocol, I was proud when they made the formal apology to the Stolen Generations and I felt I could finally hold my head up high in international circles when Australia gave support to the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples. Now I'm feeling almost as despondant as when Howard was in office.

During the Howard era I was friends with asylum seekers who had not only survived torture in their home countries, followed by the soul-destroying experience of detention, but then waited on temporary protection visas for the length of that Government's term in office. With no access to medical support, legitimate employment or housing, they were dependant on the charity of non-profit organisations to maintain their dignity and sanity during the long wait for an answer.

So, what do I want to happen on election day? Well, ideally the Greens win government and we all live happily ever after in our sustainble houses and electric cars, but failing that, I would hope that the next Government is one that is not only able to tackle the challenge of climate change with leadership and a longterm vision, but is also able to put the national interest in perspective and give equal consideration to the interests of the world's most vulnerable people, thereby making me fair dinkum proud once again to be Australian.

Even the vegans

I visited the Vegan Expo last Sunday, and I have to say I was a little disappointed. I had expected that a vegan expo would be a shining example of ethical living on all fronts. Yet, I managed to walk away eating a meal served on a styrofoam plate with a plastic fork, and clutching a vegan cookbook that isn't made from recycled paper, and having heard no mention of locally grown produce.

Maybe I am being completely unfair, but I just assumed that people who chose one sort of ethical lifestyle would also have chosen an ethical approach to other areas of their lives. But it doesn't always happen that way. I remember getting frustrated with the socialists who shared my opposition to war, but thought nothing of contributing to un-necessary logging by printing out thousands of flyers for their cause. There are also those who care passionately about the plight of people in developing countries, but don't worry too much about the carbon cost of flying all around the world in a bid to help. And don't get me started on those vegetarians who happily eat tofu without a care for the impact of soy bean cash crops on local farmers.

But I shouldn't be so harsh. As you can imagine, I have been on the receiving end of all the same criticisms. It's always the smug, meat-eating, petrol guzzling, new wardrobe every season types who question why I might call myself a vegetarian but wear leather shoes, or claim to care about the environment but fly across the world or care about the conditions of factory workers but still buy the occasional garment made in China. Surely doing something we believe in is better than doing nothing at all? So, rather than disappointed, I have decided I am comforted by the fact that even the vegans are not perfect - maybe there is hope for me yet.

Biggest killer

A recent campaign involving 2010 Australian of the year Patrick McGorry highlighted the fact that suicide is the number one killer of Australians under the age of 45. The figure is roughly double the number of people killed on the roads each year, and yet is rarely talked about in public. In the two years since my friend's death to suicide, I have been disappointed by the lack of concern about such a serious nation-wide problem.

I have heard people joke about suicide or dismiss it as selfish, immature or attention seeking. It's none of those things. Depression is a debilitating physical illness that puts people at an increased risk of death and it is not something that they can easily "just snap out of". Medications for depression have their own problems, including some which - and I find this utterly incredulous - increase the risk of suicide. I believe that if my friend had been given better medical care during that final week, his death could have been prevented. 

While doctors cite time constraints, limited numbers of beds, and lack of support as reasons for mental health patients slipping through the cracks, I wonder if lack of understanding  plays a part as well. I am concerned about the number of people who, having taken the brave step of seeking medical help, are not taken seriously enough, or are turned away too soon. Once they are discharged, families and partners don't seem to be given the information or support that would help them identify signs of distress or situations of increased risk. 

Thanks to government funded awareness campaigns we all know that speeding and drink driving increase the risk of fatal road accidents. We draw comfort from the fact that scientists are busy developing cures for cancer, the AIDS epidemic and even the everyday flu. Yet, previous campaigns around mental health have done little to raise awareness about the causes and treatment of suicide. 

So I was glad to hear that this recent campaign resulted in some Government funding being directed towards mental health. I hope it includes not just an increase in beds and further research into appropriate treatments, but a comprehensive mental health education program that better equips health professionals and friends and family to prevent future deaths.

But for the grace of God

I was at the dinner table the other night when somebody started on a rant about how irritating it is when homeless people ask for money. "Four dollars, he wanted. Who asks for four dollars these days? I mean, how dare he come along and hassle me like that. So I told him to get lost". There seemed to be nods of agreement around the table.


Just a few days earlier I had my own little brush with homelessness. Somebody, who had been sleeping on the street outside the building where I work, did a poo on the doorstep. A situation slightly more annoying that being hassled for money, one might argue. Yet, when I spoke to the man whose job it was to clean up the area, he wasn't angry at all. His comment was that we shouldn't judge for we could be in that situation "but for the grace of god". I looked up that phrase and it seems to mean that none of us is so virtuous that we might not have done the same, given the same circumstances.

With that sentiment in mind, I thought back to the issue of the hassling in the street. While I know that four dollars isn't going to solve the problem of homelessness in Sydney, it's also not a sum likely to make a dent in the pocket of anyone who can afford to take a relaxed weekend retreat with all meals included. I hope I never take for granted my charmed life, full to the brim with employment, shelter and friends. I hope I always remember that I just happen to be lucky... for now.