Far From Paradise: Song of the Solomon Islands

December 1995 - January 1996

This is an article from WaveLength Magazine, available in print in North America and globally on the web.

by Chris Ladner

The Soloman Islands from the air

We wanted to put together our own tropical paradise trip. We thought of the Maldives, Fiji, Tonga, the Whitsundays, Burma, Thailand, and the Solomons. I even ordered the charts for Maldives, thinking this would be a good spot to explore. While contemplating the alternatives I got a call from California, from a chap named Eric. He wanted to start a kayak tour company in the Solomon Islands and needed an experienced operator to show him how to do it. He had the connections, he said. Would my wife, Chris, and I be interested in coming down to see? So the Solomons it was.

We found that there was a lot to explore in the Solomons. The whole country is a vast conglomerate of large and small islands. Remote atolls dot the map everywhere. Marovo Lagoon on New Georgia Island is the world's largest saltwater lagoon. But the Solomon Islands' main claim to fame is as a World War II battleground. It was the furthest the Japanese advanced. The Allies needed to stop the Japanese establishing an airbase that could threaten Australia. Through a lot of luck, intense naval battles, heroic commando operations and thousands dead, the Americans and Aussies managed to secure the air field at Guadalcanal. The biggest naval battles of the Pacific left their legacy at the bottom of the bay in front of Guadalcanal--so much so that your compass will be confused when you go over it. Even the sharks became so accustomed to human flesh that swimming is still not encouraged. We opted to take the passenger ship to Marovo Lagoon from Guadalcanal instead of paddling across the shark infested channels. Realistically it would have been a long way to paddle.

We were lured to the Solomons for what we envisioned as a tropical paradise with white sand beaches and relaxing sun. What was in store was far more of an adventure than a holiday in the sun. The rough charts of Marovo Lagoon show hundreds of small islands in a protected lagoon about forty miles long by fifteen miles wide. Eric suggested we start our trip by meeting a village chief and stay at his home on Marovo Island. After a full day and night on the overcrowded ship, U Me Nau, we arrived in the heart of Marovo at two'clock in the morning. Small canoes greeted us. The dark skinned faces framed the shining smiles in the moonlight. I looked back at the heavy bags we had brought with us felt sure our gear would sink these small canoes. Luckily our host was in a more substantial canoe and could handle Chris and I plus Eric and his wife and their friend John. In the night it was hard to tell where we were or who anybody was but we felt a sense of adventure beginning.

Through a mixture of broken pigeon English and gestures, we were ushered into a fairly new house of concrete posts and open windows. This was obviously the chief's own home. He had moved into another shack of more traditional design, lashed together out of local wood and leaves. With modern influences, bigger and stronger houses have been built from concrete. The tin roofs allow the rain water catchment to augment their minimal water supply. All the houses are on stilts to keep the home cool in the heat. Each day was intensely hot for us. The rain would come down so hard you could shower in it and even finish the cream rinse! We moved slowly about our preparations to get on our way. Being in the chief's own house made us feel like we were imposing. Faces would appear through the bushes checking us out constantly. We never seemed to escape the local natives' curiosity.

Although the open windows were a welcome respite from the heat and humidity, the threat of malaria hummed close to our ears each night. Malaria is rampant through all of the islands. Strange bugs and animals were everywhere. Walks through the jungle revealed a long history of headhunting and strict tribal rituals. There were certain areas where women were not allowed to go. This included the particular areas for meeting nature's call. Everyone did it in the ocean so discretely that we never saw them. We felt self conscious as we were being constantly followed by curious eyes. Watching us having a shower at a common tap became a main attraction.

Eric and John were both visiting the village for the second time. They were busy trying to convince the chief of the merits of having tourists such as us there. In the next breath Eric suggested we pay the chief something for his hospitality. My interpretation was that he wanted to impress the chief with the wealth that tourism could bring to his village. What was overlooked was the impact that tourism would have on their minimal food and water supplies, not to mention the obvious impact of western ways. Most villages had a taste of these ways with the prevalence of churches--very religion imaginable has an envoy in the Solomons. But we felt that tourism may not be the best answer for the Solomons' perceived poverty. Most islanders would be happiest to sit around each day fishing and gathering fruit from the abundance of fresh food in the forest. Most would not want to work for their money and tourism would be work.

Setting up our Feathercraft double kayak became a village event. We were surrounded by villagers during the whole process. I invited the chief to come for the inaugural paddle. Being from a canoeing background he had immense paddling strength. We managed to get the double cruising at a great clip. We passed the neighbouring village with hoops and hollers from my passenger. He wanted to impress the villagers with his new found friends. I realized we were becoming more of an attraction than we cared to be.

 

We finally left for a secluded islet with a hearty farewell from the villagers. We initially felt as though we had the little islet to ourselves as the chief had indicated that the islet 'belonged' to the village. Some careful exploration discovered another encampment on the opposite side. We began to gain an unveiled look at what was really going on in the Solomons. Giant clam shells littered the beach--obvious signs of mass harvesting. Garbage decorated the bushes, indicating inexperience with non-biodegradable packaging (as opposed to the traditional banana leaves). We were beginning to learn that the pristine facade had underlying realities. There was unrestricted harvesting occurring everywhere. The western entrepreneurial spirit had been born into a culture ill-prepared to cope with the repercussions.

We had planned on a circle tour, with no set itinerary, thinking we could camp in most spots. We were willing to see what the adventure had in store for us, but we quickly learned about camping in the Solomons. Land and its flora and fauna are all valued and owned commodities. The land was owned by one person, the guava trees by another, the fish by another, the houses by another, etc. Plus, the concept of a holiday and camping does not fit in a culture where working all day is not common, except to provide basic living necessities. Wherever we camped we had visitors who seemed to uncannily know we were coming. They wanted to know if we were wanting to claim the land, I suspect. We kept dreaming of that secluded spot we could lounge about undisturbed. Perhaps it was unrealistic to expect such a place.

Paddlers from birth, these Soloman Islanders check out the Feathercraft double

Our southern most destination was the village of Mbili. This village was located on the outer edge of the lagoon's barrier islands. The location meant that it had been exposed to the influences of yacht traffic. The chief was proud of his noisy generator that powered his fridge and video player. This chief was obviously quite powerful due to his wealth and his expansive land holdings. His son was quite entrepreneurial as well. As an exporter of giant parrots to the US, he had managed to secure the entire quota and was even allowed to double it. The parrots were caught in nets in Marovo and shipped by plane to Guadalcanal. We heard later that they ended up languishing under a house in a confined pen. Someone forgot to feed them enough food and the health inspector denied the export certification. We figured the inspector was bribed by the competitive exporters who were forced out of their quota. The birds' plight was still in peril by the time we left.

It was at Mbili that things began to change for us as we became more aware of the inter-village rivalries for land and natural resources. When we landed we were hesitantly greeted by a group of villagers. A man stepped forward who had half his arm missing. He was very congenial after we dropped the name of the chief's son, whom Eric had mentioned. We knew the son was busy in Guadalcanal with business. We were taken in to their village under the assumption that we were long lost friends of the chief's son. We did not have the heart to mention that we had never met the guy.

Mbili was strongly Seventh Day Adventist with Saturday being their Sabbath day. Arriving on Saturday, we had expected to find provisions but of course the store was closed. Provisioning in general was disappointing despite what we had been promised. If you like surviving on canned mackerel, rice, Milo, and crackers, you would be in heaven. We were afraid to catch fish for fear of finding the rightful owner who would demand compensation. However, we were hosted by one of the chiefs who also moved us into his home. We were to occupy the living room which also happened to be the video theatre for the village. We tried to stay awake watching some kids' videos. Eager eyes were glued to the set. We marvelled at the contrasts and hypocrisies of simple village life and western lifestyles spiced with the Seventh Day Adventist doctrine.

With expert advice on camping spots we decided to head out before our bluff was called and the chief's son returned. We were accompanied to an old World War II bomber crash site by an aging fellow paddling his own canoe. He recounted stories in his own language thinking we understood. The tediousness of asking him to repeat himself became futile. We encouraged him on with acknowledging nods. The bomber was shrouded in the jungle so we tied our kayak up to the mangrove stocks and checked it out. Bits and pieces were strewn everywhere -- strong reminder of this period of history.

We left our paddling partner and entered the open lagoon again. The first island we passed had a nice site but we felt that we had been given better options further on. The wind quickly picked up and we plowed into it with heroic effort. It became apparent that the sites suggested to us were covered in mangroves. These would be fine for a canoe to tie up to and lounge out the day but not for camping. This confirmed the misunderstanding about the concept of camping. We were beginning to labour through the wind enough to become eager to find a place to stop. We approached a promising looking spot but our gut instinct told us to stay away.

When we had initially arrived in Marovo lagoon, Eric had inquired about a friend of his who had married a local lady and was building a large lodge to use as a base for fishing charters. Marlin and shark fishing were a market opportunity just outside the lagoon. Eric learned that according to the local police this Austrian had committed suicide. But he knew this chap well enough to immediately question the police findings. We thought nothing of it at the time. As we approached the Austrian's island we felt odd. We both agreed to keep moving, even though the light was going, the wind still strong and the warm rain soaking us. We decided to change direction, put the sail up and get some distance before we were lost in the darkness. The moon was about half so we were not that concerned. The wind had brought with it some obscuring clouds, however. In the night we didn't realize that the tide went down enough to expose the coral. In the faint moonlight the coral beaches looked very similar to preferable white sand. This meant we had to get close enough to actually touch it to know if it was sand.

In one of these approaches we managed to land. Stories of crocodiles eating villagers the previous week kept going through my mind. I went to explore and heard strange heavy noises coming from the mangrove. Nope, not that spot. As we meandered through the coral heads the waves had their way with us and deposited us on top of a particularly sharp coral head. We thought nothing of it until I asked Chris if she felt water in the boat. Sure enough we had a hole, and nowhere to land. I have never felt so close to being in a desperate situation. With the darkness enveloping us and flying fish jumping into our faces, we laboured on. We knew of a spot some miles away so we put our heads down and battled the night.

The site was the one where they penned the giant parrots ready for transport to Guadalcanal. In the brightening night the empty cages were an eerie site. We yelled out to see if anybody was there. With no reply from the encampment of canvas tents we silently set up camp. Indeed, there was a hole the size of a golf ball under my seat. We hung up our wet gear and awaited the morning sun to get on our way again.

With the Feathercraft easily repaired and dried we headed north. We concluded that we would shoot for Uepi resort some miles away. There we anticipated good meals and dry, comfortable beds. We were not disappointed. We stayed well past our targeted departure date. The skin diving was unbelievable, the meals superb, the beds oh-so comfortable.

My chest was burnt to a crisp from lounging in the sun too much. It then became infected and stank like crazy. Chris was a patient partner.

We learned from the young couple running Uepi that our gut feelings about our Austrian chap who 'committed suicide' were correct. They had actually known the couple and had arrived shortly after the 'incident' occurred. They found it highly unlikely that someone could commit suicide with two shot from a pump shot gun. You would have to pump in between shots.

The land disputes between the villagers became clearer. They did not want white people marrying into their land. The succession of land to others had been an oral tradition that was being pressured to be written. A history of headhunting mixed with the strong desire to own land to grow food were deadly ingredients of an ever brewing pot of discontent. Pressures from white people wanting to establish businesses in the lagoon were forcing the locals to come to terms with the modern world. (See Solomon Forests for an update on threats to Solomon Island ecology. -- ed.)

We returned to Guadalcanal by small plane. The pilot told us that we would need a real plane to take all our gear. So what was it that we were flying in then? We were very glad to be back in Guadalcanal. We continued our explorations in the Solomons. With our adventure in Marovo lagoon behind us, we were ready for what lay ahead.

Chris Ladner writes regularly for WaveLength and owns Ecomarine Ocean Kayak Centre on Granville Island in Vancouver, BC.