Country number: 110
Territory number: 121
When? August 2012 – coming from PNG. Next stop Vanuatu.
How? Local flights, motor boat, canoe (!)
The flight to Honiara in the Solomon Islands was only half an hour late. My connection to Ghizo was cancelled but replaced by an 18 seater and we skimmed over myriad teeny coral islands (992 in all) and reefs to arrive on an airstrip that was an island on its own. And nothing else. Met by a boat and whisked off to another coral island abode. I have my own bungalow with a sundeck over the water and all I can see are the blue of the lagoon and the specks of little islands stretching into the distance. I’m lying in bed listening to the waves lapping below me.
The locals here are all very dark mainly Gilbertese. And I still can’t get on the Internet. The girls here said they would send the boat to get me a data card from town but I don’t have any cash. And they can’t lend me any as the owner has nicked it all to go out drinking….
I have an idyllic bungalow with an idyllic view so what’s the problem? It’s raining that’s what. So I decide to have a quiet day reading. But my Aussie neighbours have other ideas. We will kayak to Kennedy Island, which is a pinprick on the horizon. (It’s where JFK was washed up during WW2). I’ve only been in a kayak once before and that was a punt out to s reef in Belize. Well the wind is against us and the island doesn’t get any closer but I keep on paddling across all the coral reasoning that the return crossing will be easy. The waves get bigger, the ocean floor further away and I’m shipping water. And suddenly I’m out of the boat, which has turned over. Can’t get back in – it just keeps sinking. So in a pretty tough sea 500 yards off land hanging onto the boat. All my snorkel gear overboard (well apart from one fin and that’s about as much good as half a contact lens) and then stung by jellies. Every holiday has to have an adventure I tell myself but this one ain’t much fun. Eventually I am rescued by a local in a canoe who is very reluctant to leave the beach. Turns out the bung has been removed from the nose of the kayak and it has been taking on water the whole journey. We stop it up with a bit of wood off the beach. And I’m back safe and sound though aching, bruised and stung. (The reef at Kennedy was actually quite pretty.)
There’s some cockroach spray on my room. It says it lasts six months. I know they’re difficult to kill but do they come back to life again?
The sun is out; the lagoon is a myriad of swirling blue. A lorikeet is chattering above and every so often a kingfisher flashes past and takes a fish with a quick plop. A snorkel safari along the reef right outside my door. I decline a kayak trip. Lobster for supper I think. That will be the third day running. And I’ve taught the barman to make margaritas.
Blissful day. The evening’s quite good fun too as a group of yachties are imbibing in the bar out over the water. Everyone swaps nautical stories and Hans, the Swiss owner regales me with his life story. He has been quaffing bottles of beer continuously since lunchtime. He suggests I might like a tour of his house- he’s very proud of it. He designed it based on an upturned palm tree and it’s called The Shack. He also designed the very upmarket establishment ‘The Lodge ‘ at the end of the island. Everyone is preparing for Kate and Wills to visit next month and he reckons he told Buck Palace he was full when they inquired about the royals staying there. Too much hassle and lost business he thought. Anyway I declined his inviting offer. He assured me that nothing would happen- maybe just a hug or two. He was right there, as he was too drunk to be capable of anything. As always I went to bed on my own!
A final snorkel across the reef. There’s a 100 foot wreck out there that the dive captain says contains a monster fish and no-one knows what it is. I don’t stay too long in the vicinity. Vibrant giant clams and some sort of parrot fish that look as if they are wearing pale pink stripy pyjamas. They try to play chicken, swimming up close with their mouths wide open and then shying away at the last moment.
I was due to fly back to the capital, Honiara, late this afternoon but I’ve checked and the flight is leaving 2 hours early! When the little prop planes drone over the island the two dogs here leap up and howl mournfully till they are gone.
Hans appears, looking very sheepish. I threaten to put his life story on trip advisor.
No live chicks on the flight this time. Abandoned at the airport when I arrive – again. My ‘local agent’, Garedd doesn’t answer his phone. So I get a taxi to my hotel and coerce them into paying the bill. They say Garedd isn’t known to them. And he hasn’t paid the bill for my stay in Gizo either.
I have an hour spare to see the sights of Honiara before I leave for my next flight. So that means 55 minutes to read in the hotel lobby then. The camera stays resolutely in its case. Honiara is certainly cleaner and safer than Moresby, but there is nothing distinguished about it whatsoever. However, I will be really sorry to leave the Solomon Islands. They’re gorgeous.
When? July- August 2017 – coming from Vanuatu. Next stop Nauru.
How? Local flights, motor boats
My flight is on Air Niugini, the plane will proceed on to Port Moresby. Memories of my trip to PNG last time I visited the Solomon Islands when I went on to Gizo. The plane is almost empty, there must be a dozen of us on a newish Boeing 737 and I get the bonus of an extra extra leg room seat. The mincing steward in his striped shirt obviously loves his job, he tells me that he prefers it like this.
This time I’m visiting two other resorts. The first, Tavanipupu Island, is where Wills and Kate spent some time. But first I have a seven hour layover at Honiara Airport to endure. It is tiny and ramshackle is too kind a description. There’s one small café and the domestic terminal is up the shingle road in a sort of wooden hut. It’s all coming back to me now. No Wi-Fi, but at least I’ve managed to bag the only sofa. I drift off to sleep in an empty lounge and wake up to find I’m surrounded by a melee of passengers. My total consumption is one coconut, one Magnum and a plate of chips and I’ve also become firm friends with the café manager, Francina, before I judge it expedient to return to the domestic ‘terminal’. The tourist posters say: Hapi Ples, Hapi Iles, Hapi Pipl.
I had forgotten how terrifying these local flights are. In total contrasts to my last flight it’s an ancient creaky prop plane with metal bench seats. Fellow passengers Sanjay, Shelley and Lou tell me that they are often crawling with cockroaches. I shall watch out for those. Though, frankly I don’t care, as long as I survive the journey.
Flying over Guadalcanal is reminiscent of PNG with peaks clothed in frilly forest and several impressively large meandering rivers. There are dirt roads where PNG has none and the hills are smaller. Tavanipupu is at the eastern end of Guadalcanal, one of a smattering of coral islands with impossibly gorgeous views onto blue seas and little white beaches with bent palm trees draped artfully across them. It’s one version of paradise.
I’ve been given the accolade of the Royal Bungalow which is naturally very swish with an indoor and outdoor shower. The bed is reputed to be the one in which George was made and the toilet has a plaque over it declaiming The Royal Throne. I don’t know which idea makes me more uncomfortable when I’m using them.
I’ve snorkelled between two jetties round a quarter of Tavanipupu through shoals of tiny gleaming fish. I’ve walked round the island (twenty minutes through clouds of mosquitoes, huge ficus roots, mangroves and pandanus) and I’ve had a massage. The locals all come to work in wooden canoes that glide onto the little beach below my bungalow and are lined up below the palm trees. It’s not a bad version of heaven.
30 July Picnic island
It was fairly breezy yesterday, but the gusts turned into a full scale gale last night. The Royal Bungalow is more isolated than the others and fully exposed to the wind. It’s not easy to sleep when your mosquito net is billowing into the rafters and there is a shower of dried palm descending from the roof.
To my surprise the planned boat trip to Picnic Island goes ahead. It’s choppy, if not absolutely petrifying and I am drenched when we arrive. The island is worth the discomfort. It’s another one of those little tropical pieces of paradise where I run out of superlatives. Every shade of blue oil paint is visible, the whitest of white sand is incredibly soft and littered with bleached pieces of wood displayed like artist’s installations.
In the afternoon a performance by the choir from the village on one of the nearby islands. It’s very Born Again but the children are cute and compete for attention by going totally overboard with their actions to the music. One little moppet hasn’t a clue what is happening and stands in the front throughout sucking her thumb.
The two back up generators have given up backing up so all the bungalows are pitch back. It’s not easy trying to find all my gear to pack by the light of my iPhone. I wonder if Wills and Kate had to out up with this?
There’s a thirty minute plane ride back to endure, though first we have to get to the airfield on the motorboat. Some of the other guests come out to wave us off. That’s nice I think, waving back. Then I see that we are being pursued by another resort boat. The guests were gesticulating because they’d been left behind. We stop to take them on board but our own outboards are shuddering and keep shutting down altogether. The plane is waiting on the little grass runway, the pilot looking impatient when we finally arrive, flapping our tickets and decanting straight off the boat onto the rickety seats.
Things improve. Sanjay turns out to be the general manager of the Heritage Park Hotel in Honiara, where I’m booked in for half a night on Thursday. Lou is a director. They offer to rescue me from the airport tedium of a prospective seven hours on the sofa and transport me to the hotel until it’s time to check in. Excellent, though Francina is going to be disappointed. I don’t feel guilty whilst I’m chomping my free scrambled egg and bacon or dozing in my complimentary hotel room with sea view.
Back to the airport for the trip to Seghe, to discover that it’s the same Twin Otter plane, but the trip is almost two hours this time. The Rescue Remedy spray is going to feature heavily.
Whatever the contenders for top five countries in the world to visit the Solomon Islands must win hands down for views for the air, when you’ve got over the terror of flying in their planes. The islands in Western Province are green Jackson Pollock splodges on a blue background. Marovo Lagoon is also billed as the world’s largest saltwater lagoon. I’ve looked up the definitions and I’m still none the wiser as to which one is correct (between this and New Caledonia). Anyway, Uepi Island is at one end of this lagoon and now I really have run out of superlatives. My bungalow is on a beach facing the lagoon. A turtle, a kingfisher, a mudskipper and the local monitor lizard come to visit, the path is lined with towering trees and coconut husk edged hibiscus and orchid borders and dinner is divine: crab, fish, chicken, oysters and ginger margaritas. Wow!
This is my second attempt to visit Uepi as it has been completely booked when I have tried before. But I had heard the reef life was amazing and persisted. As a result, today is filled with snorkelling expeditions, together with Janine and Gary from Adelaide. At 7.15 I’m eyeballing a manta who is calling by for his regular cleaning station session as the small fish hoover him. Naturally, I’ve forgotten to put the battery in my camera. At 9.00 I’m outside the lagoon battling the current on an immensely long reef that drops off to 200 metres at its deepest and admiring the coral gardens. At 2.00 I’m dropped off at Uepi Point where the lagoon meets the sea and drift with the current along the reef lining the inside passage, then swimming along the side of the island and right back to my beach to commune with the clown fish and paddle with the turtle. Along the way we’ve got blasé about sharks –O no not another one (white tipped and black tipped reef sharks) – and swum through numerous thick gleaming shoals of fish. I think I’ve earned my margarita tonight.
Today is a repeat of yesterday, but I remember my battery and the manta is good enough to visit again. There are seven of us snorkelling today, with Aussie Neil acting as snorkel master on yet another amazing long reef in the morning and back from The Point in the afternoon. By the end of the day we reckon we have seen nearly every fish in the guide book. The variety of vibrant colours and shapes is astonishing. Life on the coral is utterly fascinating with everything from minor spats to full-scale shimmering pageants constantly enacted. Moray eels peep out to watch us float past, an eagle ray sails by and the little reef sharks keep coming. I’m alternating humming Wonderful World and Jaws in my head.
The hammocks on my decking are very welcome at the end of the day. I’ve had to pack everything into my two full days. Everyone else seems to be exhausted too. The bar is deserted by nine and I wander back to my room on my own, watching out dusky for land crabs scuttling back to their burrows, after trying to rearrange my transfers for tomorrow. The flight has already been shifted forward again. I’m really sad that plane flight schedules didn’t allow for any more time here. The staff have been excellent, the food wonderful and the other guests delightful. I have a handful of invites to stay. Uepi is magic. Moving on is going to be very difficult.
I’ve bought mother of pearl jewellery from a mournful looking guy called Abraham Lincoln at the little dive jetty market before leaving on the banana boat. This time I’m in plenty of time for my plane but today I’m not even on the manifest and the plane is overloaded. There’s a lot of cargo. After a stressful half hour and a lot of ticket waving I’m allowed on because of my onward connection tonight. Phew…
Back in Honiara Sanjay has been good enough to reserve me another nice room and I hole up in preparation for the nastiest flight time of the trip. I’m reunited with The Gang of Three at dinner. Roy and Mike are still bickering away. ‘The man’s a moron’, Roy explains loudly. The plane for Nauru leaves at 1.15 a.m. We line up in immigration at 11.45. The little man with the pad dithers and then advances the date on his stamp.