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...