THE next leg of our journey took us down the west coast of Malaita in a small, motor-driven canoe past villages that have stood for hundreds of years, each a motley collection of straw huts, corrugated tin, and whatever building materials came along. Several families made their homes in derelict fishing boats and cargo traders. For much of the voyage we traveled the inside passage, with Malaita to our left and man-made islands to our right. Generations of islanders have hauled up coral and rock from the seabed and built up the land, complete with extensive walls and jetties for boats.
Arriving at a village near the bottom of Malaita, we were greeted by Selena and Marta, the women assigned to take care of us. One villager who now lives elsewhere gave us use of her house, and Selena and Marta took care of our meals and showed us where to bathe and work. Although the village is small, perhaps a dozen structures on stilts, it is unusual in that it is dry during low tide but a foot under water when the tide is up. The villagers painstakingly built a sea wall, but the water percolated up from underneath. The village cannot stay here because sea levels are rising. When the original settlers chose this spot it was above the high tide mark. Now, every day, it floods up to a foot deep. The people keep piling up crushed coral to raise the ground level but it is a losing battle. The chief is currently negotiating with other tribes for a place to relocate. Today’s children will point to the lagoon and tell their grandchildren, “That is where our village used to be.”
If there are any children. We didn’t see much of them. For most of our visit, the only villagers we saw were men, Selena and Marta. The rest of the women and all the children were hidden from us, perhaps out of fear. We spotted the occasional tuft of hair behind a tree and once a child popped out of a house, saw me and started crying. Selena said we were the first white people to visit this place since the Second World War, so I was certainly the whitest person that child had ever seen. I can imagine the shock.
After a meal of taro, fish, rice, and cucumbers, we once again boarded the canoe for a thirty-minute ride to another village. The various chiefs from the area gathered to hear our proposal and decide whether to let us dive the site. It rained off and on during the trip, the island visible through the smoky clouds. Intense smells and vibrant colors lent a surreal quality to the travel. One minute we could see Malaita, then it disappeared behind a wall of rain and cloud.
As the boat slowed, we anticipated our arrival at the village but could see nothing. Then, a hidden opening came into view, a hole through the dense mangrove through which we slid our little vessel. Inside was a small harbor with a coral jetty, built by hundreds of hands over many years. We saw the tip of it but not the base, the land was still obscured by the cloudy rain. Our guides led us up the jetty to a foot path, every step a treacherous lunge forward. Everything underfoot was either slippery or sharp. With great effort we climbed a steep, oozy hill to a meeting house where the chiefs had gathered. Since this village had no electricity, the only light in the room was from a solar-powered flashlight one of the villagers picked up in Honiara, but it was inadequate to the task as nearly everyone was smoking, so the tobacco cloud obscured most of the light. I could not even tell how many people were in the room.
An important man started the meeting with a prayer, then asked us to state our business. Ewan spoke first since he was born here and speaks Pidgin. Then Matt added on his part, identifying himself as a naval man. Finally, I spoke as an American and a teacher. Several chiefs made speeches of their own and afterwards, we were told that since all the chiefs were not present, a decision could not be made and we would have to hold a second meeting the next day. On the way back to our village, the sky opened with an absolutely relentless rain squall. I took comfort in knowing the clothes I was wearing were dirty anyway (I slipped on the path and went down in the mud) so I did not mind the soaking.
After a fitful night’s sleep, we discussed our situation over breakfast. Matt and I agreed that we presented a good case and Ewan gave our chances of success at ninety percent. We then traveled to a man-made island called Haurapi near the wreck site which was something of a neutral ground for the chiefs, a place that no village claimed. Several new faces and most of the group from the previous night assembled and process was repeated. The same man opened with prayer, we were invited to state our business, and the chiefs weighed in. That was when the bottom fell out. The new chiefs were dead set against us gaining access to the wreck. Some of the chiefs who supported us the night before suddenly turned against us. New power relationships had emerged and it became clear we were not going to visit this site.
We thanked them for their time, complimented them on their beautiful villages, and once we returned to our village we packed for home, as there was no reason to stay there any longer. We returned to Auki the way we had come, via the canoes partly in the open sea and partly through the inside passage.
BC Cook, PhD lived on Saipan and taught history for 20 years. He currently resides on the mainland U.S.
BC Cook