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.
Sunday 14 November 2010
Thursday 11 November 2010
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.
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.
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