Hunting for
Headspace
Dave Cauldwell seeks solitude in a secluded in a part of the islands that has a cannibal past and a colourful present.
Hunting for
Headspace
Dave Cauldwell seeks solitude in a secluded part of the Solomon Islands that has a cannibal past and a colourful present.
It has only been in my mouth for thirty seconds, but already I’m dizzy and my fingers have turned purple. The local stallholder adjusts his parasol and smiles.
No rod or reel needed.
His lips and tongue are bright red and his teeth are stained orange. Nodding at the half-chewed betel nut in my hand, he dips korukua (a thin, green fruit) in lime powder and feeds it to me like a baby. "You like?" Before I can answer, I’m dripping with sweat.
Overhead, the roar of an incoming airplane fails to dull the sound of my pounding heart. I wince at the sour aniseed taste in my mouth. ‘You must spit,’ says the man, demonstrating. A jet of red saliva arcs from his mouth. In my eagerness to offload this awful stuff, I open up too soon and forget to spit. Saliva gushes down my chin, most of it landing on my left foot. At that moment a family passes by. The mother shoots me a horrified stare; I look as though I’ve just been punched in the mouth. "Welkam to Solomons," says the stallholder, patting me on the shoulder.
Eager to get away from these narcotic nuts, I stumble into the domestic terminal and board a plane to Seghe. My destination is the commercial centre of the Marovo Lagoon, the world’s largest saltwater lagoon. After the dust and bustle of the Solomons capital, Honiara, I’m after seclusion and traditional culture. And Mbiche, located on the outskirts of the lagoon, ticks both of these boxes. Plus, there won’t be a betel nut in sight because its villagers’ religious beliefs preclude consumption.
Mbiche is a tiny village sandwiched between jungle and ocean.
After the dust and bustle of the Solomons capital, Honiara, I’m after seclusion and traditional culture.
But for a small collection of leafhouses perched on the edge of the jungle, you wouldn’t know Mbiche existed. Waves crash against limestone cliffs as my speedboat rounds the point. This part of the coast is rugged. There’s no beach as such, just jagged rocks studding the shoreline. In rough seas villagers wade out to incoming boats, hoisting them out of the water and carrying the occupants ashore above their heads. My entrance is far less regal: the boat drops me off and I clumsily clamber ashore.
As I approach the village a shout draws my attention right. A man holding a club runs towards me, black paint smeared across his face and chest. Before I know it I’m surrounded by five men, some wielding axes. They circle, pretending to attack me until a man, presumably their Chief, wards them off. Considering this is a traditional ‘welcome’, it’s a wonder Mbiche gets any visitors.
Mbiche is set against a backdrop of verdant sengo and coconut palms. Just a few minutes’ walk out of Mbiche, sparkly-eyed James takes me to a cave. For superstitious reasons, when women were nine months pregnant they were ostracised from the village to gave birth here. Accompanied by a nurse and a doctor, they were laid on a bed of sand and dried coconut leaves up against the rock face. If another woman arrived at the cave and it was already occupied, there was a designated stone on which she leant until the other birth-giver was finished. Once the baby was born, the mother had to spend a further four months in the cave before she was permitted to return to the village.
Passing a collection of old trophy skulls from headhunting missions, James takes me to a river filled with eels. Villagers feed these long, brown and ugly creatures with pieces of fish. At feeding time, it’s a splashing frenzy. Eels jostle and slither their way onto the rocks, clasping fish pieces between their jaws with a sucking sound. I turn to James and remark that one would taste nice with some soy sauce. He looks horrified. "These creatures are sacred," he says. "Our Christian faith forbids us from eating them."
Christian faith in this part of the world dictates that eels are spared when it comes to food.
Christian faith in this part of the world dictates that eels are spared when it comes to food.
After an awkward silence, he leads me out of the village. Children’s laughter fades as we get deeper into the jungle. Suddenly it’s just James and me and the machete that James is carrying. This strikes me as strange considering the path ahead is clear. Thoughts of cannibals punctuate my mind like the sunbeams that poke through the canopy. The locals stopped eating people in 1912, according to James. At least, that was the last recorded incident. "We don’t eat eels," I picture him saying, turning around with seemingly placid eyes. "But the Chief hasn’t tasted an Englishman in weeks."
Of course, I’m not going to end up on the Chief’s plate. James is leading me to a ten-metre high waterfall. We perch on slippery rocks as two young boys emerge from the undergrowth. One of them has a snorkel and a spear and dives into the pool in front of us. After around ten minutes of energetic swimming, he resurfaces with a wriggling modoe on the end of his spear. Breaking its neck, he offers it to me as a gift. "My wife will cook this for you later," says James.
By the time we return to Mbiche it is late afternoon. Rain tumbles and mosquitoes buzz. Women and men congregate separately under shelters. A canoe carrying a few pieces of timber arrives. Its occupants throw the logs overboard before hauling the boat ashore and then diving back into the water to retrieve them. James’s wife cooks my dinner, smoking the fish under a pile of coconut shells.
Children's laughter is a common thing to hear in Mbiche.
In my leafhouse hut, I gaze into the murky dusk and watch as fireflies skit between trees. My dinner is fit for a Chief: sweet potatoes, a selection of three fish drizzled in coconut milk, slippery cabbage with ngali nuts and cassava. After dinner I take a stroll along the water’s edge. As the roaring ocean smothers the grunters and groaners, I indulge in a cliched romance: how great it is to visit somewhere so untouched by the modern world. I find a rock and fade into the night along with my fellow beach bums.
A typical leafhouse, built with local materials and techniques.
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Solomons BITE SIZE FACT
The official language of the Solomon Islands is English, although it’s believed only two per cent of the population are fluent in it.
Solomon Airlines, the Solomon Islands national carrier, connects the world from their Honiara base direct to Australia, Fiji, Vanuatu, Port Moresby and Kiribati. International connections are available through their main hubs of Brisbane, Australia and Nadi, Fiji and from Honiara onwards to 22 domestic destinations within the Solomon Islands.
Book and find out more at www.flysolomons.com
Solomon Airlines, the Solomon Islands national carrier, connects the world from their Honiara base direct to Australia, Fiji, Vanuatu, Port Moresby and Kiribati. International connections are available through their main hubs of Brisbane, Australia and Nadi, Fiji and from Honiara onwards to 22 domestic destinations within the Solomon Islands.
Book and find out more at www.flysolomons.com