In East Kwaio, in the Solomon Islands, even traditional village chiefs welcome change. But for some people, it is too slow in coming
“Me garem no
plans.”
Adam Riddley, 58, sits on
hewn pometia beneath his house that rises above us on stilts. He
slips into Pidgin as easily as he slips into his yards of orange and
white printed lavalava wrapped tightly around his washtub
waistline.
The timber is left over
from the construction of his large, airy house two years ago that now
accommodates his and the families of his three sons.
If his agenda is empty
today, Adam insists the weeks are much more filled with activities
than in his childhood. He does not have a Palm organizer or even a
cell phone. But in Nunubilau (the name means “new vision”), with
his church and school obligations, Adam’s days have gotten busier.
Yes, change is afoot in
this small village in Sinaranngu district, sandwiched between Uru to
the north and Olomburi to the south. The three districts comprise
East Kwaio (pronounced “ko-yo”) on the island of Malaita, in the
Solomon Islands. Its people are known for their adherence to
traditional culture.
But many of them are
anxious for development.
“We want change,”
says Diki Kolosu, 43, who married Adam’s niece, Elizabeth. “But
it is not happening fast enough.”
If reports from around
the globe often tell of indigenous people fighting against the
encroachment of modernity, in East Kwaio many villagers welcome it.
The clang of pipe
against a rusty acetylene tank hanging from a tree by the sea wall
beckons villagers to the South Seas Evangelical Church for the daily
prayer service. It is 5:30 in the morning, and not many attend.
Pastor Andrew leads the service.
Though Christian
missionaries entered the region in 1906, according to Chris Nemaia at
the Visitor’s Bureau in the country’s capital, Honiara, the Kwaio
are one of two groups who have preserved much of their traditional
culture (the other is the Moro Movement in the southeastern region of
Guadalcanal).
The more traditional
Kwaio villages, where people are said to live naked and engage in
ancestor worship, are found further inland, in the hills of Malaita,
accessed by bush paths worn through the bush.
It is in those hills, in
the village of Nanakinimae, that Diki grew up as a member of the
Talanilau tribe, whose name means “the road to happening.”
Diki is on the road to
making things happen. But it has been a long, circuitous road. The
first locally schooled person to graduate from college, Diki spent
seven years working for the Ministry of Agriculture before resigning
from his post.
“I was disillusioned. I
realized nothing was going to change, so I started looking for other
ways to develop this area.”
During the last 15 years,
since the second of his failed campaigns for national office, he
feels he has been spinning his wheels. He has little to show for his
attempts at organizing the tribal chiefs.
Next year, however, a
logging concession he secured may start to pay dividends for the
Olomburi region. Included in the contract is a fund to finance the
area’s infrastructure.
Logging is one of the
country’s main exports, but environmental concerns are real. The
current government discourages logging.
“Soil run-off pollutes
the rivers,” says Alfred Francis, who has been working with the
Village Eco-timber Exporters for ten years. “The fish die and you
can’t drink the water. Even after the logging has stopped, the
river might not recover.”
Village Eco-timber
Exporters is a subdivision of the Solomon Island Development Trust,
funded by non-governmental sources. Working closely with Greenpeace,
the agency has been educating villagers about sustainable harvesting.
But even though over 100
people per year become certified after the four week course, they
often lack the machinery to do the logging. That may explain why Diki
turned to a Malaysian company, Havilah, for the concession.
“This contract in
Olomburi is for selective harvesting,” Diki explains, which may
help reduce soil run-off.
If Diki is concerned
about the future of his people, his grandfather, Fuamae – so he
says – once predicted it.
Decades ago Fuamae is to
have said to his people: In eight days time an American will come
here. When the time had passed, the villagers went to the shore to
await the visitor.
On that day, in 1962, the
anthropologist Roger Keesing arrived. Working together with Fuamae,
he spent much of his career studying the traditional culture of the
Kwaio and comprising a dictionary of the local language. Today, his
ashes are buried in the village and his spirit is revered as that of
an ancestor.
In coastal Nunubilau,
however, the century of contact with missionaries from the South Seas
Evangelical Church has left the population with a host of western
influences, including Christianity, English, and the wearing of
clothes.
The church’s charity
organisation, the Sunshine Team, assists the needy. Due to the death
of a parent or physical incapacity, some villagers are not able to
care for themselves. The Sunshine Team collects and distributes
donations of food to five or six families.
But the church has not
brought electricity or sanitation. A section of mangroves for males,
another for females, serve as latrines, flushed by the tides.
Thirty years ago, with
Nunubilau’s population at about 40, the pollution of the water was
not such a concern. Today, with several hundred villagers, the issue
of sanitation is more urgent. Tidal flows that flush the mangroves
also submerge the central portion of the village which the children
use as a soccer field.
In the near future, the
construction of sanitation facilities is a real possibility. AusAid,
an Australian governmental organization, is working to bring
advancement to the area.
During a village meeting
to discuss which projects they want funded, people are asked to
select their priorities from a list of projects. In addition to a
toilet, the list includes solar power, water supply, and a sea wall.
But David Riddley, 87,
Adam’s father and the village patriarch, says the latter two are
priorities for him. “We need a sea wall before we can reclaim the
land. And the PVC water pipes are always breaking.”
Through frequent
but short downpours the children splash in the tidal sweep, chasing
after the under-inflated ball in the hope of scoring a goal.
This week is a national
school break. Besides playing soccer, children busy themselves with
swimming or canoeing, cards or hopscotch. In the after dinner hours,
someone strums a guitar.
Older youths, with a
small boy acting as lookout, play in-and-out, a gambling card game,
near the women’s mangroves. Pigs, snouts planted in the mud, hunt
sand crabs.
In a few days, school
will begin again. In order to enlarge it, the school building was
recently torn down and rebuilt in the neighboring village of
Talaniriu, up on a hill where more land was available. In the last
few years, two primary schools have been expanded to include
secondary education.
Diki hopes education will
bring more employment. In this village of subsistence farmers, where
nearly no one is gainfully employed, remittances to Nunubilau could,
for example, bring about improvements in housing construction.
As quaint as thatched
roofs may appear to the Western eye, due to its durability, tin
roofing is viewed as progress. The lifespan of a thatched roof, sewn
together from sago palm fronds, is only a few years. Though
susceptible to rust due to ocean air, tin roofing lasts much longer.
Slowly, the local barter
economy is giving way to one based on cash, which is needed to
purchase, among other items, gasoline. Priced at S$12 per liter (S$1
is about US$0.15), it is used to run outboard motors on fiberglass
“canoes,” needed for fishing and long distance transport.
From Sinaranngu, most
traffic flows north. The village of Atori is about an hour away by
boat. There, the road begins that traverses the island to Auki, the
provincial capital of Malaita.
Equidistant between Atori
and Sinaranngu is Atoifi, the hub of the region. A hospital, founded
in 1966 by the Seventh Day Adventist Church, is located here, which
serves as an informal gathering place. It also has banking services
and the region’s only public telephones.
Furthermore, a nearby
airstrip is serviced by Solomon Airlines, which may hold potential
for tourism development, a growing interest for Diki.
He speaks of guiding
tourists through the bush, from village to traditional village.
Envisioning a local form of eco-tourism, he thinks this would help
preserve the traditional culture, while at the same time bring jobs
to the area.
If Diki welcomes the
change to a cash economy, he and his wife, Elizabeth, 37, would like
to preserve the traditional shell currency, known as bata. It
is used in traditional transactions, such as paying bride price.
“Bride price keeps men
from leaving one woman and taking another and another,” says
Elizabeth.
“Using cash to pay for
a bride would be like buying bread at a store,” Diki adds, implying
a devaluation of the transaction.
A bride may cost,
including several pigs, around 60 baniau. These are made from
small beads of shell strung together on five or six strands reaching
the length of 12 feet or more. One baniau of six feet costs
about S$500.
Kwaio fadanga, or
councils, sometimes adjudicate the amount of the bride price. They
also serve to resolve compensation for minor transgressions, like
theft, or settle land disputes. It is with such fadanga that
Diki hopes to negotiate his plans for tourism in the region.
“Me garem plans.”
My scheduled foray inland to a traditional village has been
postponed. Diki must return to Atoifi to wait for a telephone call.
So Adam gives me permission to take his dugout canoe for a trip
around the bay.
Hand-carved from the
trunk of an arakoko tree, the vessel is about 5 yards long.
Tom, 8, joins me. A second canoe, carrying five more boys, glides
along side.
Lush hillsides, palm
trees and mangroves, blue hues of bay waters with contrasting white
beaches have all been stripped from the travel poster in my mind and
now unfold in three dimensions.
But this area has no
coral reef. The estimated 4,000 tourists who come to the Solomons
annually head mostly to Western Province, to the island of Ghizo or
Marovo Lagoon for some of the world’s finest snorkeling and scuba
diving.
Two weeks before I
arrived in Nunubilau, a group from Switzerland came to visit. But
before that, no tourists had come to this area for over a year.
We paddle past a
historical site on the bank of the bay. Every child learns of the
“Mr. Bell” incident, when in 1927 local villagers massacred 18
tax officials working for the British colonial powers. The excessive
force used in retaliation by the British left a deep sense of
animosity towards the government.
Independence in 1978 did
not ease the relationship. Ten years later the region boycotted the
national election.
And an incident during
the ethnic tension that flared up between the Malaitans and Gware on
Guadalcanal at the end of the millennium underscored the people’s
distrust of the national government, which had recruited 10 Kwaio
mercenaries.
All ten died, and the
suspicion spread that they had knowingly been sent to their death.
Sitting astern, I steer
the canoe. The physics of paddling are simple: paddle left, turn
right. Then switch. But I fail to switch sides with the oar at the
right time. The bow swings past midway; momentum carries it further.
We make a full circle, bringing jeers from the boys.
“For us, it is like
riding a bicycle,” says Diki. Indeed, I spot a girl no older than
five paddling a short canoe in the calm bay water - with an infant
perched on the bow.
Diki will need a
few canoes of his own soon. He and his family are in the process of
moving to Atoifi, across the bay from the hospital to enter the
retail gasoline business. Through his matrilineal ties to the region,
he has received permission to use tribal land, on which he is
planning to build his house.
This is the benefit of
obligatory inter-tribal marriage. One has birthright to use land of
any tribe in one’s line of ancestry.
But it is precisely these
land claims that are the biggest cause of crime, according to one
police officer. A recent stabbing in Honiara left a man in critical
condition.
Moreover, land disputes
hinder development. The planting of cash crops or building of roads
cannot proceed without resolution to these claims.
During an impromptu
meeting in front of the hospital, a handful of local chiefs discuss
the mounting land disputes. Diki joins them, nurturing his network of
influence. The chiefs suggest making a written record of the
genealogy of the region. With over 70 tribes and 15,000 members, it
seems an impossible task.
Like Diki, these
traditional village chiefs are in favor of development. Foremost on
their list of priorities: agriculture, medicine, education. The
construction of a road, says one chief, is the key to everything
else.
The road the chief
envisions may be a while in coming. But two shorter roads are
budgeted for 2008, according to Stanley Festus Sofu, 40, East Kwaio’s
Member of Parliament and the Minister of Infrastructure in the
current government of Prime Minister Manase Soqavare, elected in
2006.
Sofu sees the need to
balance the development of the region with traditional values.
“Taboo sites are
sacrificial places, where the priests perform their rituals. I would
like to preserve these taboo sites, which identify land ownership and
have historical value.”
This year three markets
are under construction in East Kwaio, financed with part of the S$1
million allocated each of the 50 members of parliament to be spent in
their constituencies, under a system known as direct financing.
The Minister has also
secured S$650,000 from Taiwan for the development of cocoa, cattle,
and fishing projects this year. Solomon Islands is one of the few
countries to recognize Taiwan as an independent state.
It is 2 a.m. and
Chillian, a nurse at the SDA hospital, is at my bedside taking my
vitals. The sudden onset of diarrhea and fever in the evening after
my canoe trip caused me to be rushed by boat to Atoifi. A blood test
for malaria proves negative.
Chillian is Christian,
but he says many people combine traditional shark worship with the
western religion. How can you give it up, when you have experienced
its truth?
“You’ve experienced
the power of the shark?” I ask.
He narrates. One night
his boat was swamped by rough seas. He and his three friends feared
for their lives. But soon all four were spirited to shore on the back
of a shark.
Shark worship is a
form of ancestral worship, the traditional religion of the Kwaio.
Ancestors can be reincarnated as sharks. In the mountains above the
coastal village of Kwalakwala, Uru, the villagers of Lagolago
practice ancestor worship.
To reach this village we
paddle from Atoifi to Kwalakwala, where we meet Sam, the chief’s
son, at the local soccer tournament.
Bare feet are best for
walking in the bush. The trail, an hour to Lagolago, is muddy and
steep. Shoes do not grip like the locals’ broad feet and
wide-spread toes, the result of years spent barefoot in the bush.
Chief Lobonifooa sits in
his fanua, an open shelter which serves as the focal point of
the village. Surrounding it is just a handful of huts. Many of the 20
related family members are present. Three marijuana plants rise from
the verdant landscape.
“Just decoration,”
says the chief. They smoke the tobacco growing nearby.
He is not sure of his
age, which he estimates by using historical events. He was not yet
born when the “Mr. Bell” incident occurred. During World War II,
though, he was about the size of a girl sitting with us, who is about
five, making the chief about 70 years old.
He speaks of change.
During his lifetime he has witnessed people’s increased reliance on
the government in their bid to avenge a wrong committed by a member
of another tribe. Instead of dealing out retribution by themselves,
often resulting in tribal warfare, they have come to call upon the
police to intervene.
The proximity of the
missionaries does not bother him. He ignores them, and sees their
churches as an escape for those villages with dwindling numbers, no
longer able to support themselves.
But over the years the
existence of missionaries has led to his people wearing clothes. For
the chief, this is problematic.
Due to customary beliefs
concerning cleanliness, during her period (and childbirth), a woman
must go to live in the menstrual house, a small hut behind the pig
sties.
If a woman fails to do
this, a pig must be sacrificed and the menstrual house torn down and
rebuilt. The wearing of clothes enables women to conceal their
periods, says the chief.
But this chief wants some
change, too. He wants it so much, in fact, that he has made an
unprecedented move. He has sent two of his sons to Honiara to speak
with Sofu.
His pigs often break out
of their wooden pens and roam the hillside freely. The chief wants
wire fencing for the sty.
“The government helps
only the mission villages,” the chief complains. But Sofu says he
is willing to finance the wire fencing.
Sam, about 30, has also
come to recognize the importance of change. The older ones have
missed out on their education, but he will send his youngest to
school.
He has seen the benefit
education has brought to those he grew up with. They have found
employment and have gained a modicum of financial security.
Sam is not keen on buying
any material goods at the moment, but he wants to be able afford
bride price for his sons and have fewer worries in old age.
Going to school, however,
brings problems. People at school say words relating to their
ancestors that are taboo for these villagers.
Normally, a pig would
have to be sacrificed for each verbal transgression. But this taboo
is being relaxed, so as to preserve the pig stock.
Now, whenever they
sacrifice a pig for any other reason, they take a pro-active approach
to the taboo words, and ask for appeasement from their ancestors
should, in the future, any taboo be broken.
After an hour’s chat,
the chief sings some warrior songs, with his son humming a bass line.
Both slap pieces of bamboo together for rhythm. Upon finishing the
song, the chief grins broadly, enjoying the opportunity to entertain
guests.
Afternoon showers pass
before we head back down the path. The rains will have made the going
all the more treacherous, so Sam cuts me a walking stick. A child
from the village joins us for amusement, though she will have to
return at night.
“People walk this
distance for a matchstick,” says Diki.
As dusk falls we near the
trailhead at Kwalakwala. I stop to consider how to negotiate the ten
foot drop in front of me. Locals scurry up, headed home in the dark.
One woman, carrying a child, waits below.
She calls out to Diki.
“What’s wrong with your friend? Why is he carrying that stick? Is
he blind, or what?”
Cultural chasms divide us
personally. Yet her words, imprinting the moment with a reminder of
all we share, bring us both to laugh.
In the canoe back to
Atoifi, the woman’s wit swirls in my mind. The maelstrom of the
experience pulls towards a commonality, as Diki and I silently dip
our paddles into the dark, moonless waters of the bay.
