The Prospect of Violence

On Tuesay, there was a riot. Riot (noun): a violent disturbance of the peace by a crowd. This was my very first riot and a fine riot it was indeed. The interesting thing about this particular riot is that it was almost entirely based on rumour.

It all started when current Member of Parliament and former militant leader, Jimmi Rasta, was sentenced to 2 years and 9 months in prison for shooting a man in the knees while he lay incapacitated in hospital. (The man lay incapacitated, that is, not Jimmi Rasta.)

A large crowd formed around the high court awaiting his sentencing. Many people are still deeply wounded and angered by the recent ethnic tension in this country and rumour had spread there would be trouble, whatever the sentence. As in any country, young men with nothing to do are attracted by rumours of trouble. Many Rasta supporters had travelled in from the provinces to hear the sentence.

Around 11 o’clock I caught a bus into town, excited only by the imminent prospect of purchasing olive oil. I was jerked out of my contemplative reverie by the bus screeching to a halt, mounting the median strip and driving back the way we came. As I looked back all other vehicles were doing the same. Hundreds of men, women and children came running and screaming towards us, out of the centre of town.

The lack of information was terrifying. What had happened? Why was everyone so afraid? Images of bandits lopping arms off with bush knives came into my mind. Something very serious must have happened to make everyone run. The Regional Assistance Mission to Solomon Islands (RAMSI) took all the guns away during the tension, so it was either bush knives or stoning.

I went back to my office in Chinatown. Only as I neared the office did it occur to me that during the riots in 2006, Chinatown was the target of violence. There is a great deal of racism against Chinese here. There is a history of burning down Chinatown during civil unrest. However, my Solomon Islander colleagues would be sure to know what to do.

Every shop in Chinatown was locked and shuttered. As I reached the office, the landlord was locking the gate. I slipped inside and watched with my colleagues as over a hundred riot police gathered outside in the street. Riot police themselves look extremely intimidating. I felt I was on the set of a Denzel Washington film.

Bizarrely, after an hour or so, many of the police had left, the landlord unlocked the gate and the men from the photocopy shop next door gave me a lift home. No-one knew what had actually happened or if anything had happened at all. I spent the afternoon at home watching “True Blood.”

The peace had definitely been disturbed, but had there been violence? Solomon Islands is a land of many rumours. Rumours and high emotions are a powerful combination. The sheer hysteria of the men and women running and screaming through the streets was the most frightening and probably most dangerous aspect of the incident.

Human beings are interesting things. We were both frightened and excited by the prospect of violence. Young men flock to where the violence is rumoured to be taking place. We all have a story to tell about where we were when “it” happened. The closer to the danger you were the more kudos you get. Perverse or not, it’s human nature.

Pan pipes in the rain

One thing I like about being here is that everything is unexpected. A bad day or an anxious mood can turn good with a well-timed smile from a passing mere with a baby on her hip. This month has been hard for me. I feel I’m in a transitional phase. Feeling alone, shifting between friendship groups, missing home.

Yesterday I ran a banner painting workshop for high school student volunteers. I caught the bus to work on a Saturday, my heart in my mouth. What if no-one turns up? What if I can’t get into my building on a Saturday? What if people do turn up but it’s awkward? Working with high school students makes me slightly nervous because I remember how cruel we used to be.

Ten minutes early, Aephy arrived. Keen and friendly, he didn’t laugh at my Pijin and we chatted about his exams. I gave him selen and asked him to go and buy soft drinks. Too late, I tried to call out the window he should bring a receipt but he was already gone.

Aephy came back with three friends sporting impressive beards, three bottles of sprite and a receipt. “Iumi Transparency Solomon Islands, no gud iumi no transparent,” he said sagely as he handed me the receipt.

I put on a compilation of island reggae and the serious and polite bearded boys started designing the banner. And so it went. We drank sprite, we laughed, we took photos, we painted wonky “R”s - the fun was hilarious.

Afterwards, as I walked home in the rain, I felt better than I have in weeks. Spending an afternoon painting with heavily bearded students helped me look beyond my insecurities, fears and anxieties. Connecting with people through a shared project or a shared passion is an incredible feeling.

Living in a culture that is not your own takes great skill. Being immersed in the unfamiliar is both frightening and exhilarating. It can be tempting to take refuge in the familiar and drink one too many lattes at Lime Lounge. Lattes at Lime Lounge, however, are a double edged sword.

To linger longer in fear, to take refuge too frequently, makes the unfamiliar more alien. When I catch a taxi to avoid shouts of “Mami belo mi!” and “Nicebola!” I allow my fear to grow. When I speak English because it’s easier, I allow my fear to grow.

Fear makes us retreat from the unfamiliar. Taking refuge in the familiar too often makes me loathe myself and resent my environment. Living (happily) in a culture that is not my own takes courage and self-knowledge. I must overcome my fear to find exhilaration in experiencing the new.

As I walked home yesterday, I didn’t hear the “Nicebola”s or the “Mami belo mi”s, I saw a group of men on the side of the road playing pan pipes, felt the cool rain on my face and felt strong, happy and connected to this place.

Sardines and In-Laws

The honeymoon is over, apparently. The psychologist at pre-departure training told us that in a year-long contract overseas, the first three months are considered a honeymoon period, after which reality sets in.

If having to challenge exorbitant water usage bills and being groped by a man in a stair well constitute reality, then I suppose the psychologist was right. However, there’s a lot more to reality than bills and groping. We’d been in real trouble if there wasn’t.

One thing that is a part of my reality here is being white. It’s something I have no control over, I can’t hide it and it is always an issue.

The walk to work can be very long when it is peppered with laughter and name calling. In the right mood, I realise that people are having fun with someone who is a novelty, in the wrong mood it chips away at my confidence and I feel people are taunting me.

In the workplace being white is a strange sensation. People treat me with more deference than I am used to or feel I deserve. I have become an IT expert which is surprising to say the very least.

Being Australian here is also part of my reality. Solomon Islanders want their nation to be autonomous and heavy donor presence contradicts that desire. People are generous and welcoming, but for some there is an element of resentment beneath.

Part of being white in Solomon Islands is the complex petri dish that is the expat social scene. The psychologist did not mention during pre-departure training that we would soon be delivered into the centre of a gossip vortex of unknown proportions, where there is nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.

Unlike the end of a real honeymoon, I still get to eat tropical fruits every morning, swim in baby blue seas, listen to island reggae and buy fresh fish from the market in the evenings. If it were the end of a real honeymoon, it would be back to sardines on toast for dinner and in-laws (I imagine, having never been married, or indeed returned from a luxurious honeymoon into a life of filth and boredom).

This entry is of a different timbre to those that have come before. Even you, my beloved and faithful following, might soon grow tired of mangos, pikinini and azure oceans. The honeymoon ending isn’t as dire as sardines and in-laws. The honeymoon ending is about the realisation of complexity, feeling fragile occasionally and learning to accept that I am ‘the other’ and always will be.

Go Finis

A mass exodus has occurred. On Wednesday last week, a significant number of my friends in Honiara left for Australia for good. Olketa go finis distaem, as we say. So here I sit, in my empty house (which so recently was a seething hive of social activity) and write.

Outside the snarling, biting and yowling has begun. Is yowling a word? A ferocious canine battle takes place outside my window every night without fail. At first it was perturbing to hear the dogs ripping each other to shreds, now I manage to zone it out.

My house may be empty, but it is never quiet. In the mornings I wake up to the sounds of mango-thieving pikinini creeping through my garden and squealing as they find fallen booty. My neighbour’s latest entrepreneurial pursuit is a betel nut stall next to the abandoned car outside my house. Until midnight people come to story and chew betel nut by the rusty car, shrieking with laughter olowe.

I love it here. I love the repeated rituals of my day. I love the pikinini stealing my mangoes and our repetitive and fruitless negotiations. “Spos iu takem samfala mango, iu save bringim kam samfala lo mi tu, ia?” I say. They raise their tiny child-sized eyebrows at me, indicating that we have an agreement. Mangoes are an infinitely valuable asset here. I have five mango trees, which makes my backyard “the place to be” for all pikinini within a 10 mile radius.

A year once felt like a very long time. I see now that as volunteers, we are visiting for a short time, nomoa. Long after we go finis, the pikinini will steal mangoes, the dogs will scream murder and the geckos will klaemapem walls yet.

Continuing the Conversation

I love catching the bus in Honiara. Firstly, there are plenty of them. There is a perpetual flow of dirty white mini vans up and down the main road, Mendana Avenue. I am not a patient person and so this system suits my neurotic personality perfectly. Secondly, the buses here play wicked music. Top 40 Solomon Islands-style classics pump out of them at maximum volume which means being on the bus is like being at a mobile party. Thirdly, they cost $2 SBD which is approximately 30c so you can get on and off as much as you please.

Today as I bounced along, squeezed between a lovely bunch of coconuts and several small pikinini gazing up at my ludicrous white visage, I wondered whether my uncle, Anthony, ever caught the bus during his time here. Suddenly I felt a strong desire to be able to talk to him about the buses, about the pikinini, about the colourful hand-painted shop signs, about the ocean and the snorkeling. For me, one of the saddest things about death is that it ends a conversation. This particular conversation is one I never realised I wanted to have until it was already too late.

In some strange way, being here in this small, dusty, tropical capital city, and knowing that Anthony spent time here too, makes me feel closer to him. Did he see what I'm seeing? Did he feel the same affection for the Solomon Islands that I do? Did he walk around central market and buy green coconuts? We now have in common our experience of this country and that makes me feel I know him better somehow. Maybe the conversation can continue after all...

Transcendental Wisdom Goggles, please.

Last week I attended a South Sea Evangelical church service in a small village called Kilusakwalo. I wasn't there for a funeral. I wasn't there for a wedding. I was there simply because Solomon Islanders go to church and I live in the Solomon Islands.

I have secretly been looking forward enormously to going to church. I suddenly feel motivated by some internal spiritual clock to investigate different spiritual philosophies, faiths and religions. Here, I am able to fulfill my curiosity under the guise of cultural sensitivity. Brilliant. A cunning plan, if you will.

And so it was, with mixed motives, I found myself attending a village church service. I sat on the solid, wooden pew and looked around me at the village, dressed in their Sunday best and bare feet. A band played on stage and a man (with whom I had played a boisterous game of volley ball with the evening before) sang to his community. Outside sunlight mingled with tropical downpour. The people in the church had grown up together and gathered in this space every Sunday for their whole lives.

A man told us the story of King Solomon. King Solomon asked of God, "Give thy servant an understanding heart to judge thy people and to know good and evil." God answered King Solomon's prayer because he had asked not for wealth or for the death of his enemies but for discernment in administering justice. It occurred to me that King Solomon was onto a good thing with the old discernment caper and that I too could benefit from an understanding heart and the ability to know good and evil.

Sometimes when I look out at the ocean or when I see a hundred tiny fluorescent fish through my goggles, I feel an elusive sensation. It's a sensation that goes as quickly as it comes. It feels a little like a hit of serotonin that rushes from my heart to my head. As I looked out the window that morning, thinking about King Solomon, while the rain came down and the sunlight broke through, I felt a sense of transcendence.

Transcendence and wisdom. Is that too much for a girl to ask?

This is how you do it...

Step one: get up, get out of bed, rub frangipani-infused coconut oil all over your bald head.
Step two: sing a song about paw paw.
Step three: eat some tasty paw paw.
Step four: get laughed at continuously on your way to work.
Step five: sing a song about a coconut.
Step six: mix the lime and the coconut.
Step seven: say, “Doctor,” in a high pitched voice.
Step eight: google “corruption in the Solomon Islands”
Step nine: write an article entitled “Corruption in the Solomon Islands.”
Step ten: eat one coconut and go to sleep.

The Raw Throb of Existence

"By then Chris was gone. Five weeks earlier he'd loaded all his belongings into his little car and headed west without an itinerary. The trip was to be an odyssey in the fullest sense of the word, an epic journey that would change everything. He had spent the past four years, as he saw it, preparing to fulfill an absurd and onerous duty: to graduate from college. At long last he was unencumbered, emancipated from the stifling world of his parents and peers, a world of abstraction and security and material excess, a world in which he felt grievously cut off from the raw throb of existence (Krakauer, Into the Wild, p.22)."

I recently had a conversation with a young man in bar about motorbikes. It occurs to me that many young men of my acquaintance between the ages of 17 and 35 desire to possess and to ride motorbikes. Statistics indicate that it is extremely dangerous to ride motorbikes and that this activity often results in grievous bodily harm and or death. I am intrigued as to what it is about this dangerous activity that so appeals to young men.

The young man in the bar thought it had to do with adrenalin. My step-father (who was once a young man between the ages of 17 and 35 who desired to possess and ride motorbikes) feels it is about masculine independence and freedom - just a man, a machine and the open road. Another friend uses his motorbike as a way of escaping civilisation when the presence of human beings becomes overwhelming.

Adrenalin. Independence. Freedom. Escape. The journey and the machine are inextricably tethered. Young men seek to escape from something, to be independent of something, to be free. What is it they wish to leave behind? Where do they wish to go? I believe that young men seek to experience the “raw throb of existence” through their relationship with the machine. They seek to be free of expectation. They seek distance from conformity so as to have the space to find out who they really are. The man and the machine have an existential relationship.

Youth and restlessness go hand in hand. I am not a young man and I do not desire to possess and ride a machine, yet I do yearn for independence, freedom, adventure and ultimately self-discovery and wisdom. I want to engage in an epic journey.
Chris McCandless loathed his opulent upbringing to such a degree that he would risk his life to escape it. I enjoy and am grateful for my safe and privileged upbringing - but I hunger to experience another side of life. Our parents and grandparents worked hard and suffered so that we would grow up safe and privileged, but the children of my generation yearn to be more exposed.

Like Chris McCandless, who followed his rigid moral code into the Alaskan wilderness, the young wish to expose themselves to anything and everything in the pursuit of the raw throb of existence. The trick, perhaps, is in staying alive and relatively undamaged so as to enjoy the self-discovery and wisdom when (and if) you find it.

The Young and the Restless

"I wanted movement and not a calm course of existence. I wanted excitement and danger and the chance to sacrifice myself for my love. I felt in myself a superabundance of energy which found no outlet in our quiet life"

Leo Tolstoy, "Family Happiness," as quoted in Jon Krakauer "Into the Wild".

Cold, Wet Bitumen

It's a cold, rainy Sydney morning. I can hear the wet bitumen sticking to car's tyres as they roll past my window. I don't know why, but for a few years now I've found life in Sydney slightly depressing. It seems too flat somehow - too predictable. I don't know if I like the person I am when I live my Sydney life as much as the person I can be when I'm out of my comfort zone.

Surely this feeling must be something internal that I have attributed to Sydney, as a city, a place. But I can't seem to shake it. I feel truly alive when I'm somewhere new, with new people, discovering new things about myself and the world. I love the sense of possibility that a new environment offers, the adventure and the sense that anything could happen.

I hope one day that I can be happy here in Sydney. This city is where I grew up. My family lives here. My past is here. I would love to be able to embrace all of the good things Sydney can be. Usually when I arrive home in Sydney, driving from the airport in the early morning I adore Sydney for its blue skies and crisp air. I hope that one day my affection for this city, my home town, will stick around.

Netball is for Girls

In my fantasies about my new life in tropical paradise, I had joined a local mixed gender soccer or basketball team. I was rudely wrenched from this fantasy earlier this week when I was told that soccer and basketball are for boys only and that women play netball in the Solomons.

"Netball? Lame!" My brain thought.

I played netball when I was in primary school but somewhere along the line my brain created a binary thought pattern that characterised netball as lame and girly and basketball as cool and edgey.

I attended 7 different schools between the ages of 3 and 18 and each time I was "the new girl', a similar scenario would develop.

Stage One: the teacher invariably pairs the new girl up with a girl belonging to the second coolest group of girls.

Stage Two: new girl bonds nervously with the second coolest group of girls.

Stage Three: the second coolest group of girls decide to persecute new girl out of their gang for reaons best known only to themselves.

Stage Four: alone and adrift in the terrifying terrain of the playground, the new girl plays basketball with "the boys" as they are the only ones who will talk to her and not say things like "Is there someone talking or is it the wind blowing in the trees that I can hear?" when the new girl talks.

Stage Five: Coolest group of girls immediately adopts new girl as a strategic move to facilitate romantic trists between themselves and "the boys" ("the boys" of course are infinitely valuable resources in the battle for status and popularity.

And thus was born the idea in my head that basketball was cool and netball was lame.

Years later, you can imagine my shock at having my binary thought pattern ripped in an untimely manner from my world view by the idea that if I was to bond with my fellow Solomon Islanders through the pass time of team sports, I was going to have to join a netball team.

After consirable psychological struggle I have managed to adjust my tropical Solomons fantasy to incorporate netball in place of soccer or basketball. I have the feeling that this will be the first of many challenges to the way I view the world over the next 12 months and I look forward to them all with anticipation.

Transparent:

Free from guile
Candid and open
Diaphanous
Shining through, as light
Translucent
Permitting the uninterrupted passage of light

Sarongs and Bare Feet

The Solomon Islands. When did they first cross my radar? Over two years ago, I sat with my uncle, Anthony, and my mother on the verandah, sipping wine and looking at my uncle's photographs. He had just returned from many weeks working pro bono with the Public Solicitors Office in Honiara. Anthony had fallen for the Solomon Islands. He'd always had an ardent relationship with the ocean and the iridescent blue water in his photographs went some way to explaining why the Solomons had become a special place for him. Inside my uncle's copy of Theroux's "The Happy Isles of Oceania" (which I am now reading) is a dog-eared photograph of a beach in the Solomons, marking his spot in the novel.

Anthony and I were not close, but I found him inspirational. He had the fearsome intellect and logic that comes with taking silk. He looked very sharp indeed in a suit and even more so in a wig and gown. He had the soul of a surfer and in his spare time would lose the suit for a sarong and bare feet. Most importantly of all, he did things...
He took action on his beliefs. He went to the Solomon Islands and used his skills to assist people who were in need of help.

So it came to be that I, having freshly graduated from a Bachelor of Social Work, applied for a job as an Advocacy Support Officer in the Solomon Islands. Much to my surprise - I got it. I am now absolutely terrified, completely unprepared and thrilled to bits about the twelve months that lie before me.