Crocodiles and Kaleko: Dangers and Designer Clothes in the Solomon Islands

By Paula Louise Henriksen

Imagine landing in a foreign country during a peace-keeping mission. You move into a compound where your taps run dry and then the generator blows up, leaving you with no water or power. It is hot, the sort of heat you cannot imagine and you have responsibility for a $60 million aid program. This was Paula Henriksen's introduction to the Sol

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paula Henriksen
• Release date: Mar 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9780648234616

Paula Louise Henriksen

Paula Henriksen was posted to the Solomon Islands in 2010 as a Senior Program Development Specialist for the Australian Agency for International Development (AusAID). This was her first overseas posting with AusAID, although she had undertaken many short missions since joining the Agency in 2005 as a health specialist. Previously, Paula worked for the Department of Health and Ageing and in the non-government sector. In 2013 the Australian Government merged AusAID into the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade (DFAT) and in 2014 Paula left DFAT to devote her time to writing. Her short story An Unpredictable Land was published in the 2015 Stringybark 'Travellers Tales' anthology. She has two daughters and lives in Canberra .

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Iam standing in a crowded store with my back pressed against a rack of faded tropical shirts. My hair and clothes are clammy with sweat. People are jostling with their elbows, while I’m oblivious, focused on a row of dresses on the far wall. They’re tempting, but out of reach—my way is blocked by an untidy pile of kaleko (clothing) on the floor. Women are sitting cross-legged around it and rifling through the rags, then throwing their rejects back onto a spreading pile. Their pikaninnies (children) are sitting alongside. Some are joining in the work at hand while others are plainly bored, crying or begging to go home.

We’re in ‘Island Clothing’, a busy emporium on Honiara’s main street. It’s no fashion boutique, more like a thrift shop where bales of second-hand clothes arrive weekly to be sold rapidly to an eager clientele. When I first arrived in Honiara women told me stories of the designer outfits they’d picked up for a song at one of these shops. Some were brand new, with their labels still attached. Of course such finds are always buried amongst the old and tired clothes you’d expect to find in second-hand stores. The quality garments in amongst the dross are a fossicker’s delight and here I am fossicking away.

The place is packed with people since new bales arrived today—parcels of tightly-packed garments that spring open with a musty pong. Long skirts, jeans and overalls are crammed along nearby walls and a low rack of blouses splashes colour through the centre of the room. It’s steaming under the tin roof. An attendant sweeps a broom across the grubby floor, then a hand across his forehead and the room hums with languid energy—but I’m stranded in a scrum of women, with no hope of reaching those enticing frocks.

It’s 2011 and I’ve been in the Solomon Islands for just over a year, here on an AusAID posting to manage the Australian Government’s country health program. It’s not an easy job, juggling competing priorities with limited resources. Soon after arriving I found that living and working in the Solomons was like swimming in opaque waters with occasional glimpses of stunning coral, while always knowing that a crocodile might be approaching unseen.

So far I’ve not met a real crocodile, and hope I never do. There are constant tales of the big ones seen at Bonegi, Ranadi or Kakabona beaches, but crocodiles can come in many forms, particularly amongst a small expatriate community in a country emerging from civil unrest. We’re all aware of personal security and the Australian High Commission circulates regular warnings about rowdy crowds, riots or crocodile sightings. But subtle dangers are harder to identify and can sneak upon you unawares, like the work colleague who said one day, ‘I think I’ll start a rumour about you and the High Commissioner,’ as she reached for the phone. A rumour? Why? In a town full of eyes and ears? My throat dried instantly at the thought of a crocodile waiting to snap. She laughed and replaced the phone . . . that time!

I’m no safer at home, where a temperamental generator means unpredictable periods of candles and buckets, in lieu of power and running water. Even the Solomons heat is a crocodile of sorts, lying in wait every time I step outdoors, causing me to flinch from its jaws.

Living in this pressure-cooker can become overwhelming, so I need regular breaks, like a weekend at one of the country’s dive resorts. A trip home is better, but rare. For me, a foray to a thrift shop offers a micro-break from menacing crocodiles. It’s an acquired taste, a hot and sweaty hunt that’s become my guilty pleasure and escape. Maybe it’s an obsession, but it helps me survive. When work becomes too much I duck out to Island Clothing, Lili, Lel or XJ6, all of which open their new bales on different days. Over time I’ve learned which shop to try, depending on the day. What will be there? Maybe nothing, but it’s fun looking. Of course mistakes are common; there are no mirrors or change rooms and it’s far too hot to wriggle anything tight over your head, so I often take a chance.

On this day I’m clutching a Country Road blouse, not a bad find. It looks brand new, all crisp and white. It will be perfect for Honiara’s oppressive heat and at twenty-five Solomon Dollars (less than four Australian) it’s a steal. I’d be happier if I could reach those frocks, but one of the things I’ve already learned in the Solomon Islands is to resign myself to unexpected events. They are never predictable but they always cause a delay or change of plan. Sometimes I have to give up altogether.

So I’m about to accept defeat and head back to the office with my blouse. There is an enormous workload waiting for me, but it’s been a successful jostle and my head is clear. It’s so clear I’ve forgotten my imminent meeting with a government official and the program report that needs writing. I pull out onto the busy main street of Honiara, my bounty stashed beside me in a plastic bag of instant happiness.

CHAPTER 1

HOW DID I GET HERE?

I’ve always lived in a city. Art galleries, shopping malls and cinemas are my favourite haunts and I’m not one for outdoor activities. So moving to the Solomon Islands was never a plan. It was Jen who persuaded me.

Jen and I have been friends for over twenty years. We met in the early nineties, when we worked together in a small non-government organisation and our daughters were at school together. We became close, despite our differences. If I’m indoors, she’s all outdoors. She thinks nothing of hopping into a car and driving thousands of kilometres to help a friend move house and talks of sailing the world on a yacht one day. When I listen to her I imagine her strong arms pulling a boat into place, while I’m quietly groaning below deck.

After we moved on to other jobs we met at weekends, walking our dogs and supporting each other through life’s challenges, many involving men. Jen worked at the Australian Government’s overseas aid agency (AusAID) and in 2005 she alerted me to a job vacancy there. I had the right qualifications and experience for the position, which sounded inviting. I applied and soon joined the Pacific desk as a program manager, to help small island countries strengthen their health systems and control lifestyle diseases, such as diabetes. In those days AusAID funded aid programs in many developing countries.¹ Staff worked in the head office in Canberra or applied for postings to live in these countries for two or three years, as vacancies arose. I never expected to work overseas but Jen jumped at the opportunity. She moved to the Solomon Islands, to direct AusAID’s corporate services. After she’d gone I missed her and she encouraged me to apply for a posting as well.

‘We’re all really happy here, it’s nothing like the work you do now,’ she wrote in several emails. ‘You’d love it, you really would.’

I knew little about the country, apart from the fact that a regional peace-keeping mission was based there to control civil unrest . . . and it was a hot-spot for divers. I’m not a diver and the thought of men wielding machetes in a tropical jungle was not encouraging. Overseas postings may be a great way to learn first hand about international development, but packing up and leaving home for unknown dangers was a big step to take, so I smiled sweetly and ignored her persuasions.

Then in late 2009, AusAID needed a new health program manager in the Solomons. It wouldn’t be easy, managing millions of dollars to support the country’s health services—but it would be more exciting than my Canberra desk job. And a rather lonely period loomed at home. One daughter had moved out and the other one was about to go to the United Kingdom for a year on a student exchange. It was the right time to shake up my life, so I submitted my application and left the decision to fate, feeling a mixture of expectation and fear.

Just before Christmas I learned that I’d won the appointment, which would start the following May. Congratulations rolled in and I was thrilled to be leaving so soon. This would be my first experience of living in a developing country, an exotic adventure at last. As 2009 finished, I revelled in my excitement and anticipation.

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1 In 2013 the Government dissolved the Australian Agency for International Development (AusAID), merging the remaining aid program into the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade (DFAT).

CHAPTER 2

HONIARA BABY

My excitement diminished somewhat when lists of home wares, essential purchases for the tropics and an endless round of medical checks took over my life. In February I started an intensive program of training to prepare for the posting: things like learning the local language and how to stay safe in dangerous situations. Jen came to town for a work meeting and took me shopping for kayaks. I couldn’t picture myself having water adventures, but was caught up in her enthusiasm. Maybe it would become my favourite thing. We drove to the store, where Jen stopped to admire a small boat, parked out in front. I wandered in and stood beside an inflatable Hobie, imagining a shallow paddle by the seashore.

‘No, they’re no good. Come and look at these sea kayaks.’

She’d followed me inside and was standing beside a long red vessel, stroking the smooth surface. It was narrow and pointy, with a seat that folded down.

‘These are made of special material, really light. State of the art. We can take them out to sea and go from island to island.’

She pointed towards a yellow one. It was long and nosy as well, but wider with a flatter bottom.

‘That one would be good for you, it’ll give more balance. Have a seat. You’ll need a life jacket too.’

They were certainly pleasing to look at, like sleek seals, although I was intimidated by the thought of taking them out to the open sea. Could I manage big waves? What about crocodiles? We bought them both. Then the shop owner measured us for paddles. Jen’s face was lit by the widest grin I’d ever seen. She was laughing with pleasure as we left the store, while I fondled my yellow life jacket, imagining how smart it would look with the matching kayak.

After months of preparation I was ready to leave. My Solomon Islands pidgin was assessed as a pass, I knew how to jump-start and reverse a four-wheel drive down a rocky road, use self-defence and life-saving techniques and best of all—how to escape from a car boot. The two kayaks had been sent ahead in my ‘uplift’ of household necessities, that included rolls and rolls of toilet paper and buckets of mosquito repellent. I was well stocked with sunscreen and my health was declared fine. All was in order, until the departure date neared.

The past four months had kept me so busy I wasn’t prepared for the wrench of leaving home. I was terrified. My daughter Fiona planned to move in to my house to care for the beloved pets and was waiting for me to clear out first—a sensible decision as I was in a nervous state by now. When the day came it felt unreal. Booked on the early ‘red eye’ flight to Brisbane, I shot out of bed on a cold Tuesday morning to be ready at the front door when the taxi arrived. It was still dark. My dog was fast asleep on the back deck, oblivious to the coming change. Peeking out for a final look at her solid, warm familiarity I had a moment of doubt but there was no turning back now. My cat came out to see me off though. Cats know. She was in the suitcase the night before, looking distressed. Feeling like a criminal, I sneaked out, careful not to wake my dog and worried that something might go wrong. What if my daughter didn’t come to feed and love the pets?

There was no chance to relax at the airport. The woman at the counter checked all my documents then looked up.

‘You do realise you’ll have to collect your suitcases in Brisbane and take them to the international airport?’

For some reason, AusAID’s travel team had made two separate bookings for me, even though both flights were with the same carrier. It meant I’d have to lug my enormously heavy suitcases up to a platform and load them onto the train to the international terminal. Under-slept and overwrought, I almost sat down on my suitcases and cried with frustration, but there was more to come.

‘Your cases are overweight. You’ll have to pay for excess baggage. I’m afraid you’ll have to pay again when you check in at Brisbane.’

I was entitled to an extra fifteen kilos of baggage to start my overseas posting, but hadn’t managed to find out how to organise that entitlement. The travel team at work had suggested I check with the carrier. They weren’t helpful, so I’d given up and trusted to fate.

Fate was not looking kind this morning but my guardian angel appeared in the form of a work colleague who was travelling to Honiara for a short mission. With very little baggage, she was happy to help me with one of the weighty cases.

‘You seem really stressed,’ she observed with surprise, oblivious to the fact that I was about to leave the life I knew and venture into the unknown for at least two years.

Bending down to grab a suitcase, I overlooked this lapse in empathy. I was intensely thankful for her help as we each heaved a case up the escalator to the train station and her unruffled manner was soothing. It’s much easier to face the unknown with someone alongside.

Once my cases were checked in, the hard work was over. We were flying in business class so we breakfasted in the lounge alongside all the suited high-flyers with their briefcases. I even managed a glass of champagne on the plane before take-off. We clinked our glasses together, ‘To the Solomons!’ and I settled in to read the in-flight magazine like any business traveller.

Three hours later we flew over sandy atolls and dots of tiny boats that looked like threads embroidered onto a turquoise canvas. I pressed against the little window to stare at waving rows of palm trees, then suddenly we landed at Henderson airport in Honiara. The flight attendants ushered us to the front exit, to straggle across a steamy tarmac where the heat hit me like a damp wall. I shielded my eyes, while a pungent aroma of rotting vegetables wafted from nearby.

Jen was the first person I saw. She looked different, like someone on holiday. Her hair was cropped short and she was wearing a skirt and sandals. Her legs were tanned and her arms waved above her head to attract my attention before pulling me into a bear hug. ‘I can’t believe you’re here! This is going to be wonderful!’ She grabbed one of the cases, lifting it as she talked, ‘How was the flight?’

I nodded, mute, as we crossed a road towards her car. My jeans were already clammy on the backs of my thighs and the air felt solid around me, as if I’d stepped into a sauna; I’d expected it to be hot, but not like this. Peeling off my cardigan I threw it in with the cases, ‘Wow, it’s certainly hot!’

Jen chuckled and reversed her four-wheel drive. We drove towards town, past people casually strolling along the road or sitting behind little wooden tables laden with bananas and coconuts. Warm air lifted my damp hair, cooling my neck.

‘Sorry, I’ll have to close the windows now,’ Jen said. ‘We have to drive with the car locked. Security regulations. The aircon’ll kick in soon.’

Tall trees lined the road, shading the stall holders from the sun. After Canberra’s chilly autumn landscape, the thick foliage looked foreign or from another planet. We drove past a busy street market with foods spread out on trestle tables or on cloths along the footpath—bunches of mysterious greenery, mounds of peanuts and what looked like yams. Then we passed rows of shops. At least I think they were shops. They looked neglected and shabby, with faded signage above tin doorways. People squatted on the asphalt out in front. The scene reminded me of the poverty I saw many years ago in Madagascar. I wondered what might be sold in such places and couldn’t imagine walking inside. As we drove past more derelict shopfronts, it was clear my predictable, ordered life had gone—for what seemed forever.

‘I wonder if Fiona’s gone to feed the pets?’

Jen just laughed as we dumped my suitcases in her house, ‘You’re in Honiara now baby!’ she said with a big grin.

She showed me to my room and I was relieved to be staying in her clean, established household. My ‘uplift’ of household goods would take a few weeks to arrive at my allotted house, so its emptiness was hardly inviting. Jen’s house had chestnut floors and Persian rugs, a verandah and timber shutters on every window. She showed me around.

‘It used to be the harbourmaster’s house,’ she explained. ‘That’s why it’s out here on the point. You should have seen it before we renovated, it looked like it was falling down. I’ll show you the photos some time.’

I had trouble picturing a dilapidated past for this cool and shady oasis. Overhead fans whirled constantly in every room, including the wide verandah, inviting me to lie down and enjoy an afternoon gin and tonic. But no. As soon as I’d taken a reviving shower Jen drove me into work for greetings.

‘You have a big job’ several people observed, pumping my hand. ‘We’re so pleased you’re here at last.’

The next day started at 7.30am with a breakfast meeting at one of the main hotels. Apparently this was a common method of grabbing time with visiting colleagues or consultants before the start of the working day. Jen dropped me off at the entry, pointing towards a green-fronded terrace. The group was there already, so I sat down and greeted my suitcase-carrying friend, who was talking about a program that sought to reduce incidence of malaria and eliminate it in some provinces. The program was coming to an end and a new one must be developed.

‘You’ll have to do a proper evaluation first,’ my travel buddy insisted, catching my eye.

Malaria. I was relieved to be taking preventative medication . . . then it dawned on me that the new program was one of my responsibilities. And the evaluation. That’s why I was invited to this meeting. We adjourned to my new office for a team meeting, where my boss handed over a number of urgent priorities. Some were due by Friday. This was Wednesday and I didn’t have a desk yet or even computer access. I searched the faces of my team, three young Solomon Islander women, who fixed their eyes on the table, without looking up. Apparently my predecessor left six weeks earlier, so the priorities had piled up. My boss was understandably keen to hand them over, but I was surprised by their enormity. I scribbled furious notes while she talked on and on. I could feel my anxiety levels elevate as I absorbed the size of the job, thankful for the panadol in my bag. After this we arranged times for mandatory security briefings and courtesy calls. These would fill the rest of the week. When would I get onto those urgent work tasks? Personal needs, like organising a bank account, home phone and internet all faded into the distant future.

They drifted even further away the next morning, when I presented myself at the High Commission to be greeted by the ominous words, ‘You’d better get to your desk, there’s something you need to deal with. There’s a very angry man looking for answers.’

My boss was standing outside her office,