“I wish I could tell you about the South Pacific. The way it actually it was. The endless ocean. The infinite specks of coral we call islands. Coconut palms nodding gracefully toward the ocean. Reefs upon which waves broke into spray, and inner lagoons, lovely beyond description. I wish I could tell you about the sweating jungle, the full moon rising behind the volcanoes, and the waiting. The waiting. The timeless repetitive waiting.”
James A Michener, ‘Tales of the South Pacific’
I bought a copy of Tales of the South Pacific in Honiara, during our first trip to the Solomon Islands more than thirty years ago. Michener was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for his collection of World War II stories in 1948. Eighty years on, that opening paragraph still rings true for me.
The way it was, is the way it still is in this corner of the South Pacific. Nothing much (apart from that particular war) has changed. Visually the islands are still lovely beyond description. The jungle still sweats. As for the waiting, it seems we’re always, timelessly waiting for something; the office to open, the bus to come, our order of bush lime to arrive. It’s that Solomon Time I’ve talked about before. Fifteen minutes can as easily mean an hour and there’s no point in getting upset about it. Best to find a comfortable seat in the shade and wait it out.
Managing time in the islands is further complicated by two things for me.
One, I’m married to the early guy. He agitates and stresses and is packed and ready-to-go long before he needs to be anywhere. At home we’re always an hour early for everything. Here we’re several hours - sometimes even days - early for whatever is going to happen.
And two, our assignments are in tourism. International flight schedules, visitor expectations, pre-booked excursions, the explanation that the boat didn’t arrive this morning, but hey, no worries, it’ll be along shortly, sometime this afternoon, or else maybe tomorrow... It provides a unique challenge.
Floating in one of Michener’s lovely beyond description inner lagoons, looking up at gracefully nodding coconut palms, I know I must have done something amazing in my last life to deserve this. Waiting with a frantic husband or a pale and shaky tourist, trying to keep it together and chanting OM under my breath, I realise I’m working on karma for my next one.
Then, just when I think I’ve got that under control, here comes complication number three. In a place where everything is late, planes leave early.
Exactly why this happens is unclear. It could be the combo of small aircraft and weather conditions. Or that the flight is over-booked. Or the schedule has changed. Or none of the above. If you’re lucky, there’ll be another plane tomorrow, but most likely, it’ll come next week.
The reason we got stranded in Munda all those years ago was probably because the plane was overloaded. We made the short hop across from Gizo and were told to disembark on the coral runway. Some sort of mechanical problem, the pilot said, we had to go and wait at Agnes Lodge. For how long? we asked. About five hours.
It was too enticing. Here was this gorgeous island with a road running alongside the lagoon, we had to go exploring. The grumpy 13-year-old we were travelling with disagreed. We left her playing cards in the restaurant with a couple of other passengers and headed off into the jungle. It was magical. Those graceful coconut palms Michener talks about, a bench in the jungle made from the wing of a World War II aircraft, a leaf house on stilts, peeps of the Roviana Lagoon filled with little coral islands… and mmm, listen, what’s that? A plane taking off. Yep, definitely a plane, oh wow. Oh no.
Five hours? It hadn’t been more than half an hour. A uniformed islander appeared on the road riding a bicycle, gesturing frantically. We must go back now, he told us, hurry. Our plane’s leaving. No kidding.
Although it was obviously too late, we sprinted all the way back to Agnes Lodge to be met by the thunderous face of a 13-year-old, playing cards by herself.
Long story short, we were rescued by the New Zealand Navy - sort of. The only other person left behind was a naval officer and we were able to get back to Honiara on the plane sent to fetch him. It really did take a full five hours for his chartered flight to arrive, but sitting in the restaurant at Agnes Lodge sipping bush lime was as pleasant then as it is now, and we were immensely relieved to be saved. We weren’t forgiven though. Not for a long, long time.
These days leaf houses have mostly been replaced by wooden ones and there are more of them, but the biggest difference is the runway. The cute, sleepy town of Munda now has an international airport and an outrageously over-specced runway. It doesn’t mean that planes are any more timely, the traumatised looks on the faces of the few tourists that do pass through here are testament to that. But it’s the reason for our assignments.
We’re here to try to fill planes, ‘bums on seats’ is how the marketing gurus in Honiara love to put it. To bring money in the form of tourist dollars into the country and ultimately improve livelihoods for Solomon Islanders.
All part of the United Nations Agenda for Sustainable Development Goals, Goal 8, target 8.9 which aims to: “by 2030, devise and implement policies to promote sustainable tourism that creates jobs and promotes local culture and products”.[1]
When I saw the position advertised on VSA’s website, I had a deep-down knowing. Michener’s South Pacific combined with my experience in a similar role in Vanuatu: this assignment was written for me. The waiting was over. Thirty-five years later, it was time to come back.
[1] The UN Sustainable Development Goals - Goal 8.0: Sustainable Tourism