THE community bell rings at 6 a.m. to start the day, though we are already awake. The village of Taro at Choiseul Bay is one of the nicest places we have visited. It is relatively clean, there is a nice school and hospital, the police department seems adequately trained and professional, and everyone greets us on the road. Several countries are cooperating to improve the airport, with New Zealand doing most of the actual work.
After breakfast, we met three police officers at the wharf who would accompany us to the wreck. An hour and a half boat ride along the coast brought us to a river, and a few miles up the river stood a lonely little village of grass huts. Like so many others on this expedition, the fifty odd people who lived there had never seen white people. The chief, on the other hand, had seen whites before and got dollar signs in his eyes. When we asked if the airplane wreck was in the mountains he said yes. When we asked if we could view it he again obliged, even providing guides to take us up there. He asked if a couple young men from the village could tag along because they wanted to hunt wild pigs and we agreed. Ewan gave him a gift and some cash to seal the deal and we proceeded upstream.
The extra passengers, the hunting party, never got off and they clearly never planned to because they did not bring any dogs, and islanders always use dogs when hunting wild pigs. So, in addition to our three police escorts, we now had five guides to take us to the airplane and each of them expected to be paid. The journey upriver was stunningly beautiful, with wild jungle plant and animal life in abundance. One frog made a high-pitched beeping sound that seemed more electronic than biological, while birds no larger than matchbooks chirped out symphonic melodies that filled the jungle air. Around nearly every bend we hit a shallows which required us to portage.
When we reached the point in the river where the boat could go no further, the five young men jumped out and began hacking their way through the jungle while the three policemen, my companions and I quickly followed. I called to my companions that I was tired and slowing the party down, and that they should proceed without me while I returned to the boat. I backtracked and three of our guests accompanied me while the remaining party pressed on.
Back at the boat, we swam in the river and I made conversation with my companions, asking about their families and telling them about mine. I shared my cucumbers with them, and they tried to persuade me to chew betel nut. After several hours the other party returned. There was no plane. They climbed all the way up that Godforsaken mountain and never saw a wreck. Talking privately, we suspected there wasn’t one, at least not one they were willing to show us. The chief got his gift and five of his men got paid for being our guides, and we never saw a blasted thing.
When we returned to the wonderful village of Taro at Choiseul Bay, we had not worked out who all was in on the scam, but we did learn that the boat used only half of the fuel they required us to buy, so we told the police they could keep the fuel as payment for their escort services.
Matt summed it up quite nicely. In Malaita, there was definitely a plane but we got no cooperation from the locals. At Choiseul, we got plenty of cooperation from the locals but there was no plane. Still, our time at Taro was very pleasant and we got along with everyone we met. The women in the market were friendly and talkative and the local officials did their best to accommodate us. I hope to return there someday. I want to visit the friends we made and I want to try out the new runway.
BC Cook, PhD lived on Saipan and taught history for 20 years. He currently resides on the mainland U.S.
BC Cook
