AUKI, a small town on Malaita, Solomon Islands. This morning’s ferry ride across Iron Bottom Sound was rough. The sea was choppy and huge waves rhythmically crashed over the deck, soaking the islanders who chose to stay topside. There were enough seats inside, but some islanders are not comfortable riding inside a boat. It took one good spray to convince me to stay in my seat for the rest of the journey. As the ferry approached the dock in Auki, a throng of people surged toward us. It seemed like the entire village was there and I thought perhaps the arrival of the ferry was a big deal. The source of the excitement was soon realized as six men emerged from below carrying a coffin. An important islander had died, and they were bringing his body back for burial. Since blood ties run deep on islands like this, nearly everyone showed up for the unloading. The coffin was solemnly placed in the back of a truck and driven away with the six pallbearers at its side and most of the crowd walking behind.
Word spread that a group of white men were looking for a crashed plane loaded with gold, and when we entered a restaurant, everyone assumed it is us. They were correct in assuming we were the ones looking for a plane, but they were wrong about the gold. Our interest was historical, not financial, but that can be hard for some people to understand. In addition to the misinformation, the local power brokers stepped in.
Like many Pacific islands, the Solomons have two sources of power. First, there is the island government. The Solomons are a parliamentary democracy like New Zealand and Australia. There is a central government with a Prime Minister and Members of Parliament from the various provinces. They pass the laws and represent the nation to the world. Then there are the local chiefs, family heads whose ancestors have run these villages for centuries. Just because the national government says you can do something does not mean the local chief agrees. For example, the national government may not care who you marry, but the local chief may be quite interested. A smart man will seek the permission of the chief before he weds or he may find life quite difficult. He cannot buy a house, no one will give him a job and so on.
To dive the wreck we have come for, we followed the proper channels. Letters were written to the national government and once they realized we were not gold diggers they soon gave their blessing. The chiefs were another story. Each village owns not only the land it occupies but also the waters nearby. Since we did not know exactly where this wreck was, we were not sure which village chief needed to be satisfied. They claimed to know, of course. Every chief within twenty miles said the wreck was definitely in his waters and therefore we needed his permission, which meant he needed to be paid. Currently, we are sitting in a hotel in Auki, awaiting the arrival of yet another chief who claims the wreck is in his waters. We will show him our maps and make our case for where we believe it is located, and hopefully he will go away. Maybe there will be another one after him. Eventually, we hope to dive our plane while we still have the shirts on our backs.
It has been raining for over 30 straight hours. Not the hard rain of the mainland, but the tropical monsoon rain of the equatorial Pacific. This much rain is incomprehensible. All life stops, everyone and everything takes shelter and waits, there is nothing more to be done. Two nights ago, a pack of wild dogs kept me awake with their screeching and fighting. Last night and again tonight, no dogs. It is possible their racket is drowned out by the intense cacophony of the rain, but more likely they called a truce until this passes over. A voice emerges out of the rain, a barefoot man in a tank-top and shorts yelling in Pidgin but he is angry and drunk so his words are a jumble. At this time of night, I imagine he has been caught with another woman. He could not be more wet if he was swimming in the lagoon. Then suddenly the rain intensifies, if that was possible. The sound of a hundred trillion rain drops hitting corrugated metal roofs is louder than a rock concert. The man is still shouting but I can no longer hear him, I can barely see him. He disappears down a muddy trail and into the night. We are supposed to board a pair of open boats and motor sixty miles down the coast to our next dive site, but we cannot move. No boats are going out until this rain passes so we sit and wait, drink endless cups of coffee, and plan our next several moves. Like Noah and his animals, once the rain stops, life will begin again. The shops will open, people will emerge from shelter, the streets will once again run red with betel nut spit, and the wild dogs can resume their gang warfare.
BC Cook, PhD lived on Saipan and taught history for 20 years. He currently resides on the mainland U.S.
BC Cook
