I had booked a village stay on the internet. To be honest, I was amazed that you could. Previous experiences of booking village stays had been somewhat entertaining. First time,  I had been told of a nice place by a work colleague, who had given me the number of a man named Terry. Terry lived in Honiara and it was his cousin’s mother’s brother who ran the place. Terry’s cousin’s mother’s brother, David, did not have phone reception as he lived on an island. So, Terry had to call a guy he knew, Mickey, who would paddle over in a canoe to bring David back to the main land so we could arrange a stay. To arrange a stay, you also had to arrange a truck and a boat. To arrange a truck, you had to first find one to hire, then you had to find a driver to drive it and finally buy fuel to make it go. Terry, who lives in Honiara, has a brother in Auki who has a truck (thank the lord). Terry’s brother, Richard, can also put us in touch with a man who maybe has a boat, we just need to take enough fuel from Auki to get us over to the Island and back. Que a second call to Terry, who rang Mickey, who paddled over to the island to ask David how much fuel we would need to bring so that that Richard’s mate can get us there. And the saga continued…..

Solomon Islands travel tip 1: Make sure you have a contact number for someone who lives in, or near by the village you plan to visit.

Before I left Malaita I had emailed to confirm my booking and made a payment, on line, with my visa card. This, in itself, is a small miracle and possibly only the second time I have used my card this year. It may have contributed to luring me in to a false sense of security. There was something niggling that was telling me it was all too easy but I decided to trust in the system. Fool.

Solomon Islands travel tip 2: Never arrive on a Sunday morning during prayer. Especially if that Sunday is Easter Sunday.

So, it is 11 am on Easter Sunday and Obed is skill-fully navigating the boat through the shallow, tropical reefs as we make our way along the shores of Mbabanga Island. This is probably one of the most visited islands in Western Province as it has two of the country’s most famous resorts, Fatboys at one end and Sandbis at the other. 

We are staying at a homestay in Mbabanga Village which is slap bang in the middle. The place is deserted, the shutters are down. We spy a boy, sitting on a jetty and a young girl taking a swim below. Nobody is expecting us and everyone is at church.

The village is beautiful. The leaf huts are spaced out around a large central stage which is used for dancing and markets, everywhere bright sarongs hang fresh on the washing lines. The green leaves and bright flowers of the gardens are vibrant against the powder white sand that covers the floor. A lady pulls up a bucket of fresh water from the well and washes the sand off her pikinini who is running around in bright pink thongs, laughing and squealing.
We sit and stori with a young girl who comes from Auki and married a man from this village. She is very young and already has two children. Before long, a small, panicked looking man comes blustering through the village. He is sorry, but he had no idea we were coming. The house is not ready and has not been stayed in for some time. There is no food, no water, no gas, no power and no chef. There are village celebrations all day for Easter and he’s not sure what to do.

The house is amazing, right on the beach front with a veranda all the way round, the waves lapping only meters away from the from steps. We are lucky, Fatboy’s is only a short stroll and before too long we are washing fresh bug’s tails down with ice cold beers, gazing out across the reef to the paradise islands beyond. 

This is the stuff travel sites are awash with: yachts floating off the shore, speed boats, champagne and lobster. Despite the obvious luxury we are revelling in, the resort is chilled out and relaxed. I can think of worse way to recover from our accommodation disaster.

We return to the homestay to find it transformed. There is still no water, no gas, no electricity but we have a bed and a rainwater tank so we are happy. We spend the afternoon snorkelling and reading before (oh woe is me), heading up to Sandbis for another meal.
As we stroll through the village I am surprised at how different it feels from the ones in Malaita. I cannot quite pinpoint what it is until Emma starts to tell me about the Gilbertese. The Gilbert Islands (Part of Kiribati) are a chain of sixteen atolls and coral islands in the Pacific Ocean about halfway between Papua New Guinea and Hawaii. 

I am amazed at the difference in not only physical appearance but the whole atmosphere of a Micronesian village is different. A young girl sitting on the ground says hello. She is beautiful. She has long wavy silky black hair, a far cry from the tight black afros or blond curly hair of the Melanesians we see here. Her eyes are big bright ovals against her black skin and even though she is sitting you can tell she is tall and slender. I think she is taken by surprise when we start to chat with her in Pijin. We ask her if she would like to walk with us to Sandbis as we are unsure of the way. She is keen, but her friend is not. We take directions and carry on, trying to pretend that we have not seen the giant turtle on the shore, obviously there for the Easter feast that evening. Reflecting on the day as we stroll, I get the distinct impression that both resorts here are tolerated, not welcomed and that the two worlds remain entirely separated: the reality and the rich.
We don’t enjoy sandbis so much. On the outside it is picture postcard perfect. Don’t get me wrong, I often enjoy a night hanging out with the lads at the sports bar, rock music turned up, beers flowing as fast as the testosterone but here, in paradise, I’d like to listen to the ocean and look at the stars.

The next day, we meet up with the local expat community. A few of them are working at Gizo hospital (a different world to my shack in Auki) and we are able to hire one of the local “ambulances” for a day out island hopping on the ocean.

It’s a great day. We eat, we gossip, we snorkel, we fish and we snooze. This is the Solomon Islands we all hear about and I’m not surprised, it’s bloody lovely.

We return back to our homestay and are treated to a meal cooked by one of the chefs from Sandbis, who lives here, in Mbabanga village. We are lucky, we get to spend our last night eating the most amazing meal of fresh tuna and cray fish cooked in a delicious salty garlic butter, a creamy mash and a salad with, somebody pinch me, salad dressing! 

Tomorrow it is back to Auki for me but I will always remember sitting on the veranda, looking out as the moon shone over the coral reef, the waves lapped out our feet, satiated, drinking fine wine with great company.

For Emma, The end of an era.

Some people don’t understand why I choose to stay in the Solomon Islands. I have lots of reasons, holidaying is one of them.
We are travelling to Simbo, a volcanic island situated in Western Province, Solomon Islands.

The low flight to Western Province from the capital, Honiara, reveals hundreds of dense green tropical islands surrounded by aqua coral reefs and tranquil lagoons. My travel buddy, Emma, points to so many fantastic places she has seen which leaves a small stich of panic that my time is coming to an end. I have definitely not seen enough of this amazing, beautiful place. The only negative being the vast bare patches of land created by intense, often illegal, logging. The damage is destroying not only the land but also causing rivers to bleed thick brown murky water that stains the bright blue sea like a gunshot wound.

The plane lands on an island runway and we transfer to a small OBM boat for the rest of our journey. 

The sea is rough, the weather harsh. My hands are white and numb, the bones in my bum feel decidedly angular as they come crashing down on the wooden bench as we pitch and lurch over limitless rolling waves. We are soaked to the bone, a fresh bucket of sea water thrown over us every 5 seconds or less. I am already feeling slightly foolish for worrying about the hem of my trousers getting wet when we first arrived. As we glance back at our driver, Obed, he is stood at the rear of the boat in only cut offs and a tee shirt. He is casually smoking a cigarette as if one was out on a boating lake. We feel safe.
Through the spray we spy a flock of birds circling on the horizon. Emma’s face lights up “Bonito”. She points the birds out to Obed and within minutes we are riding a huge wave right into the centre of the flock, a fishing line tied to a soda bottle is reeled out into the water behind us. Despite the roar of the engine and the surge of the ocean, it feels eerily calm in the heart of the flock. Black birds of every size seem to silently hover and dive all around us, as if we were never there. We emerge at the other side and Obed cuts the engine. Within seconds he has reeled in a huge silver fish, skilfully removed the hook and tossed the flapping fish under the bench. He starts the engine and we’re off, riding a second wave into the cloud of birds. Within 15 minutes we have four fresh flapping fish. Satisfied that dinner is sorted, we continue on. 

At last, we arrive and are released into the calmer waters which separate Simbo and Nusa Simbo (Simbo Island). We are able to see and breathe again as we wipe the salt water from our stinging faces. We are shivering. The still green water is clear, the sea grass gently swaying in the current. We notice the steam rising up through the wind and the rain and lower ourselves into the bath warm water of a hot a spring. Total Bliss.

The homestay.

The homestay we are staying at is run by Obed and Lizzy. I say Obed and Lizzy but in true Solomon style that includes the whole family, the extended family and some or most of the villages. It is a lovely, well built, two story house looking out over the estuary between the two islands. The upstairs has three bedrooms and a communal living space that is open to the fantastic view. The bathroom a small wooded hut outside with a manual flushing toilet and a bucket shower. It has everything you need and nothing you don’t. Simple. We are surprised to find Kay, another Australian Volunteer here. She works with Olivia, the daughter of the family and is lucky enough to be here on a work trip. Her role is working with women in business and the island has a number of bee hives she hopes to develop. We taste the honey on fresh baked rolls and it is lovely.

After a shower, a short stroll and a dinner of the freshest fish and the juiciest pineapple we retire early to our mosquito netted beds where I’m lulled into a dreamless sleep by the gentle lapping of the waves on the shore.
We spend the next morning on a trek up the Volcano.

 Setting off in the boat we emerge from the calm waters onto the weather coast. The sea is calmer today and the sky is blue. The water is as clear as glass with an emerald sheen against the dark volcanic rock. We catch a couple of fish (of course) on route and arrive, pulling the boat up a small rocky steam to emerge into a green lake at the base of the volcano.

 We are guided by Nevin, his wife Ollie and Obed’s son Jesse. As Jesse guts and washes the fish and Ollie weaves us a basket to cook our food in, we head off into the bush in search of Megapode eggs. The Megapode is a bird that hatch with open eyes, bodily coordination and strength, full wing feathers and downy body feathers. They are able to run, pursue prey, and fly on the same day they hatch. Interesting stuff. 

Megapode eggs are unusual because they have a really large yolk that is light and creamy and delicious. We didn’t find any. Luckily the guys had brought a few spare. Returning back to camp, the fish, eggs, cabbage, cassava and bananas had been layered into the woven basket and was now placed on a steaming outlet at the foot of the volcano. It will be left to cook, ready for a feast on the way back down.

 The hike itself was short and sweet, giving us a chance to stori with our guides and we joked and laughed from the bottom to the top and all the way back down again, arriving to a volcano baked moto (oven) lunch. I’ll be honest, the lunch itself was pretty underwhelming but the adventure of the hunter/gatherer experience definitely made it for me. 

With sun beaten faces and full bellies we headed out again in the boat, ending the trip with a fabulous snorkel in the warm welcoming waters of the pacific.

Olivia’s daughter is not very well. She has a temperature, a cough and is cranky so it is decided that she will go to the local clinic to see the nurse. Not wanting to miss the opportunity to check out a rural health clinic, the whole family, three volunteers, the nurse and her friend all pile in for the boat ride and a short stroll through the village. 

The whole island is a tropical garden paradise. There are flowers of every colour and size taken from all over the pacific islands. The butterflies, of which I am informed there are over 300 different species, dance and flutter all around. The leaf huts are immaculately maintained and the main path through town is like walking through a moss covered dream. It is certainly not what I expected from a volcanic island.

 I stori with Fiona, the registered nurse. It turns out she has worked at Kilu’ufi hospital and we have some mutual friends. It is a small world. Despite the rest of the village being well maintained, the health clinic itself is in need of some repair. It has no electricity, no running water. She is out of many essential medications and has a shortage of supplies. Her radio is broken and has been for many years. 

This is not an isolated tale unfortunately. I tell her I am amazed at the work she does, here, all by herself. Because, unlike single nurse posts in Australia, she is alone.

We spend the evening stori-ing (a good old gossip) with Lizzy and I reflect on how much I am enjoying myself. In my nine months here, despite a rocky start, my Pijin is greatly improving. This was once a chore which would leave me feeling slightly exhausted as well as confused. I was never quite sure if I was having the same conversation as everyone else. Pijin is a slightly back to front, muddled version of English. It is a spoken language only and has a much smaller vocabulary. 

The part of pijin I really enjoy is the theatrics. My sister always makes fun of me because I use such strong adjectives when I’m telling a story such as horrific, horrendous, magical and marvellous. These words don’t really exist in pijin, you just need to accompany the sentence with a highly emphatic “yeah man!” “Hem Nice for gud” “Tru wan!” Gestures, facial expressions and lots of eyebrow Olympics is essential to really get your point across.
The next morning we awaken to fresh crayfish, caught overnight and rice. An excellent finish to an amazing visit.

 I would strongly recommend Simbo Island. We are back into the boat for a much calmer journey back across the sea and heading to the tourist hotspot of Gizo for a couple of days of picture postcard R&R. To follow…

It has been a busy couple of weeks down in Kilu’ufi Hospital Knowledge Lab. 
The end of April is the dead line for all Australian Scholarship applications to be in. For 8 months I have diligently tried to fill the class room with attentive ears but never have I seen it as full as the Australian Awards Scholarship information session.

At the end of last year I was trying to get one of my colleagues to apply for a scholarship that would pay for him to study either in the Solomon Islands or another Pacific country such as PNG or Fiji. His response was “what is the point?” At first I was taken aback but he explained that he would be living away from his family for up to three years. Yes, he would come back with extra knowledge and skills, but then what would he do with it? He feels there is nowhere for him to move in his job except to a management position. He would receive a minimal pay rise and work longer hours with increased stress. He could move back to Honiara but he’s from a small village in south Malaita. He already feels far too far away from his own family. He has children who are happy in school, nor does he want to leave his wife behind. In my usual positive Anna way I tried to tell him that he was wrong and with an attitude like that, he was certainly never going to change the world. He just needed to believe in himself. He argued that I had been here less than six months and more times than I care to remember I had had my enthusiasm crushed and the wind knocked out of my sails. I would say 75% of my effort to boost morale and create an increased interest in education had fallen flat on its face. The walls are too high, the rivers too deep. He said I still have gas in the tank, some hope that I can maybe make a change. He asked me, would I still feel like that in 10 years? I’ll admit, it was a pretty strong argument.

But Australia! Australia is a whole different kettle of fish. Living the Australian dream. Pack your bags, leave everything behind and sail off into a world of opportunity, a world of wonder. He didn’t think twice. The application form the only thing I’ve seen him complete. I don’t blame him. He is no different from any of us, from me. We are all searching for that one, elusive thing: happiness.

We are lucky. The majority of us have travelled. We may not get to see the whole world but we have certainly gone further and wider than many Solomon islanders could ever dream off. The majority can barely afford a cold beer in a bar, let alone pay for flights, hotels or a meal in a restaurant, Most have never been on a train, driven on a motorway or travelled in a lift. They have never woken up to a vegemite sandwich or eaten a chicken parmi.  They have never had a wide screen TV, been to the cinema or to the theatre. Never stepped foot in an a shopping mall. Never slept in cotton sheets. This, (so we’re told) is what makes us happy.

My manager made an interesting point after reading my last blog. I had made a comment that Solomon Islanders did not seem unhappy, that they did not stay awake at night, worrying about the future. She told me I was wrong. On reflection I believe she was right and that it was a highly naive and ignorant comment to make so fleeting. Between that and having spent the last two weeks helping people chase what they believe to be their journey to happiness (Australia) I decided to do some research. It turns out, I am not the only one. Phewee, there are a lot of ideas out there.

So, the dictionary defines “happiness” as the state of being happy. Helpful.

Buddhism states that ultimate happiness is only achieved by overcoming craving in all forms. It encourages loving kindness and compassion, the desire for the happiness and welfare of all beings.
Catholicism believes that perfect happiness can be attained not in this life, but in the next. Where is the fun in that? Imagine living your life, knowing that no matter how hard you try, you will never achieve happiness?
It turns out that you can measure how happy you are just by filling out a questionnaire. There are thousands to choose from: The Subjective Happiness Scale (SHS), The Positive and Negative Affect Schedule (PANAS) and The Satisfaction with Life Scale (SWLS).

 Go on, give it a go. You may be surprised.
Happy People Live Longer. It is a fact. Bruno Frey reported in his book of the same name that that happy people live 14% longer, increasing longevity by 7.5 to 10 years. Bring on the Happiness.
Carl Honore uses the term “turbo-capitalism” in his book In Praise of Slowness. He believes that long hours on the job is making us unproductive, error-prone, unhappy, and ill. In this media-drenched, data-rich, channel-surfing, computer-gaming age, we have lost the art of doing nothing, of shutting out the background noise and distractions, of slowing down and simply being alone with our thoughts. Similar musings to a recent blog of mine:

He suggests many ways in which in which we can slow our lives down. According to this theory, the Solomon Islanders should already be living the happiest of happy lives.
At lifeedited.com, Graham Hill thinks that too much space and too much stuff is making us unhappy. He believes that if you design your life with multi functional spaces you will have more money, health and happiness. The key to happiness: a sink combined with a toilet and a dining table that turns into a bed. True Story. Applicable to the Solomon Islands? I think not.
Along the same lines, two Americans, Joshua and Ryan have theoretically helped over 20 million people live meaningful lives. How have they done this? By blogging about minimalism. On paper, they had everything that we in the western world believe will make us happy: great six-figure jobs, luxury cars, over-sized houses, and all the stuff to clutter every corner of our consumer-driven lifestyles. What they found though was that they were slugging their guts out to afford more stuff that ultimately did not make them happy. Sound familiar? The solution: don’t focus on having less, focus on making room for more. More time, more passion, more experiences, more growth, more contribution, and more contentment. Do I think http://www.theminimalists.com will manage to spread their gospel here? Err, possibly not.
This poses the 100 dollar question: Does Money make us happy? Clark and Senik (2011) published an interesting article “Will GDP growth increase happiness in developing countries?” They say that a growth in wealth may, at first, go hand-in-hand with a perceived improvement in “quality of life”, but additionally, it may well be accompanied by unwanted side effects such as pollution, income inequality or stress on the job. Secondly, they found that greater purchasing power increases individual happiness, but man is a social animal and relative concerns (income comparisons) may well diminish the absolute effect of greater wealth. The answer is, as always, ambiguous.
Dan Gilbert, a psychologist, has a different theory. He says that we all have a kind of psychological immune system in which happiness can be synthesised. This system is mostly made of non-conscious processors that help us to change the way we see the world. He says we do this in order to feel better about the world in which we find ourselves. The great news is that we all have it. The bad news: most of us have no idea how to use it. Getting closer? I think so.
Psychiatrist, psychoanalyst and Zen priest Robert Waldinger, the director of the famous “Harvard Happiness Study” states “Good relationships keep us happier and healthier, period.” The first lesson we are taught during our transition to the Solomon Islands is that building relationships is the most valuable thing you can do here. If you don’t take the time to make friends then you will get nowhere, period.

The last theory I found in my search for happiness (sorry, cheesy) was a TED talk by Benedictine monk: David Steindl-Rast called “Want to be happy? Be grateful.” I urge you, if you have a spare 15 minutes today, please listen to this: https://www.ted.com/talks/david_steindl_rast_want_to_be_happy_be_grateful
So simple. A previous blog I wrote was about religion and how I like the prayers every day because we are expressing gratitude for what we do have rather than thinking about all the things we don’t. Perhaps, in a society where we have access to everything we desire we have forgotten how to enjoy and be thankful for it. I think we can learn a lot from the Solomon Islanders.

So, happiness. Who knows?
All I know is this: Those nurses who I see sleeping on tucked away beds in quiet corners during work hours, those I can barely motivate to get an email address never mind complete an online course, those who shy away from attending training sessions “because it was raining”, those who would rather smoke cigarettes and chew betelnut than do a full day’s work are suddenly motivated and career driven.
I just worry. Will one year, two years in Australia scratch that itch? Is it the dream of escape to a better life that motivates them or is it the aspiration to return to the Solomon Islands a leader and a pioneer, dedicated to helping in the development of their own country? Because they will have to come back. I hope it is the latter and a scholarship to Australia will give them the skills, the education and the motivation to come back and change the world. I really do.
And for those that miss out? Will the desire to go to Australia mean that they will never even consider expanding their education with a qualification here in the Solomon Islands? Because, as my colleague says “what is the point?”

I was never the nurse who followed the rules.
I don’t believe that you can fit patients into a box. Every person is unique, every illness is different, every disease process individual, every history rare and every healthcare setting distinct.
Working in both Australia and England I often felt strangled by so many rules and regulations. There are best practice guidelines, clinical guidelines, flow charts, standards and care plans, scales, scores, and values, directives, risk assessments and protocols. Clinical governance, incident management, risk reporting, performance management and reflective practice are all terms at which I would let out a heavy sigh and role my eyes. Don’t we have enough do? Is it not just another form, meeting or discussion to add to the already heavy load?

I often felt frustrated by these guidelines. Nurses live in fear of differentiating from the norm. Working in a remote healthcare setting, I often had to think outside the box, to adjust the rules, to fly by the seat of my pants. Words such as negligence, compensation, accountability, misconduct and scope of practice constantly hung over my head, keeping me awake at night. Of course we always want to do what is best for our patients, but during the rush of the trauma with the adrenaline pumping, mistakes do happen, bad decision are sometimes made. Nobody wants to end up in court for trying to save a life.
Now, imagine a world where there are no rules, there are no regulations. Imagine a world where accountability and responsibility cease to exist.
Imagine a job where getting to work an hour, maybe two hours late every day is acceptable. Imagine a job where sleeping, smoking and getting high during work hours is the norm, where lunch breaks last for hours and the only thing you ever read is the newspaper. Imagine a job where you will never get a verbal or written warning and it is virtually impossible to get fired. Would you really want to work there?
What if you have been a nurse for more than 10 years and you only had the original knowledge base from that first diploma you ever did? What if you had never had a mentor or anybody who ever questioned what or why you do the things that you do? Would your practice be current? Your skills be up-to-date?
Would you be able to justify not giving a lifesaving drug for over 8 hours because you didn’t understand what it was for? Or would you want to find out? If you didn’t have the equipment you needed to carry out basic observations and nursing interventions, wouldn’t you jump up and down, shout until you got it?
Imagine dealing with so much illness and death, day in, day out, knowing that most of the time it is avoidable, yet not knowing what you need to do or what you can do improve the situation. Imagine if death was the norm and not the exception. Would you cease to care? Wouldn’t you want to talk about it? To work out what you need to know, to try to find solutions, to ensure that the next patient at least has a chance of survival?
Now, think about turning up to an emergency department with your sick child in the middle of the night. After two hours, you are told that that there is no nurse because the previous shift left early. After four hours you are told there is still no nurse because the late shift has not yet arrived. You would want somebody to be held responsible for that. Wouldn’t you?
Do you know what it creates: A world without accountability and responsibility, without rules and regulations, policies and procedures? It creates a world that is stuck in a time warp. Nothing ever changes. If we don’t reflect on what we do and why things happen then we never see that anything is wrong. If we can’t see that anything is wrong, then why would we try to change it? So it never changes. We make the same mistakes, people continue to die unnecessary deaths and the world just keeps on spinning, day after day, week after week, year after year. 

So bring on the paperwork! Bring on the clinical governance! Bring on reflective practice! I am a converted nurse. And I never thought I would ever hear myself saying that.
It has taken me over seven months to realise the extent of the problem. On the surface, things just seem to tick along nicely. I knew there were concerns but I was only being shown the tip of the iceberg. So, me, being typical me, spent a week falling apart. Of course, I think it is all my responsibility: What should I do to right this wrong that has taken developed countries decades to rectify? (Have they?) How can I introduce new systems in the blink of an eye that have taken panels, councils, unions, boards and committees of trained professional’s a lifetime to develop? Where do I find the money, the time, the expertise, the technology and the equipment needed to ensure that education and evidence based practice is delivered in all aspects of care? Can I single handedly, in four months, teach years of experience in every clinical area? 

Can I remove cultural norms and expectations, break down years of barriers and behaviors and replace them with a different set of motivations and ethics? Can I do it by PowerPoint?
No. Is the answer. And nobody expects me too. Sometimes the truth is harder to deal with than the expectation but of course, no one person could ever make that amount of difference in one year to a whole hospital, no matter where it was, and especially not here. I am gradually becoming OK with that, but it is hard, to know that so many deaths could be avoided. So, I guess I’ll just carry on doing what I’m doing. Bit by bit. In a calm and relaxed manor. 

Last night, over dinner, I was discussing my thoughts and feelings with my new mate: pocket rocket Kate and she said to me (in her terrible Kath and Kim Aussie accent) “yeah mate, I see what you’re saying, but have you noticed that nobody is that unhappy? Nobody is stressed to the eyeballs, lying awake at night, thinking about what they did or didn’t do at work. Nobody goes home, consumed with anger that their boy should have lived. They just think it is God’s way.  He died of natural causes and he was cared for till the end”. 

She is right. 

The Solution? Who knows? I doubt we will find it in my life time but I’m guessing there must be a happy medium somewhere between the two systems. A place where we learn and grow from the  mistakes we make but where we do not need to sacrifice our wellbeing and happiness for fear of doing the wrong thing. 

And just to prove it’s not all work and no play: 

It’s been a long time since my last blog.
A lot has happened.

I came home from work about three weeks ago to find my door ajar and noises coming from inside. Now, if I had been thinking clearly I probably should have walked away and called the police.
But I was mad. Stark raving, blood bounding in my ears, foot stomping, mad as a hatter mad. Whoever this was had shattered my dreams of an idyllic life in my new home. I had begun to doubt myself, believe that perhaps I was a little unhinged. What if I was actually a crazy drinking lady, consumed by stress, staying up at night downing bottles of spirits, smoking cigars and snacking on food, wiping every trace away by morning?

Or perhaps I did believe in Ghosts? Ghosts with keys who loves to spend Aussie dollars by the $50 note. Who knows why I avoided what I knew was the truth for so long but now I had my chance. I had him.
In my head I was fearless, I was brave and I planned to get some answers. When the young boy strode purposefully towards me he must have seen me for the shaking, quivering wreck that I was and he was not afraid. Not one little bit. As I threw questions at him, he skilfully backed me out of the door and was off across the field before I could say Boo! To a goose. Damn it!
I called the police.

About thirty minutes later, the police Troopy comes screeching up the drive and slams to a halt under the house. The doors are thrown open in a plume of smoke as three officers exit to the back. They make a show of finishing their cigarettes and disposing of their blood red spit before commencing their “investigations”. This consists of a masterful stride around the house, checking in corners and under bushes should the perpetrator be hanging around for a second attack. Two of the officers are in full police uniform but the third, a female officer, from the tips of her toes, to the large scarf bow she has tied around her hair, is covered totally in leopard print. Cagney and Lacey: eat your heart out. Finally, satisfied that they have saved me from a fate worse than death, I am acknowledged.

Taking my statement, I recall trying to explain (in terrible Pijin) the tattoo he had across his chest, likening it the same as Brax of River Boy fame. 
Unsurprisingly, my attempt was met with blank faces. I’m not sure showing them a picture on my phone was also a wise move as I’m pretty sure they now think he is a friend of mine. They jot a few notes down on a scrap of paper and they’re off.

An hour later I hear the chugging engine of the Troopy again and head downstairs. This time they all stand proud, pigeon chests puffed out and big grins on their faces as they parade a 16 year boy in front of me. It is the son of my security guard. I am made to look him in the eye and confirm that this is, indeed, the boy in my bedroom earlier that day. Despite my earlier anger at this boy, I am unnerved at this awkward ceremony and feel like, in some way, it adds to the violation and the intimidation I have been feeling over the last few weeks. 
The next day I left.
So that was a low low but in true Solomon Style, I am tripping on a high high.

It was only four days before I was moved into a new house. It is not as refined as the one I left behind but it has a great balcony, amazing views and is fenced with a security guard so I’m feeling much safer. 

I have a great house mate: a bubbly, energetic little pocket rocket teacher called Kate. On top of that are another two great volunteers (unfortunately one has already headed back to Australia with a broken arm. But that’s a different story), lots of guests from Honiara, visitors and dinner guest. The house is full and bustling, the kettle is always on, the fridge full of food, the beers cold and the laughs are loud

Gone are the dulcet tones of Bridget Jones “all by myself”. It is time to sing a new song: survivor? Beautiful Day? Stronger? I believe I can fly? Answers on a postcard please. 

I’d forgotten how lucky I was to live in such a beautiful, untouched place. It has been amazing to see it all again through other people’s eyes, to spend time exploring the rivers and the waterfalls, strolling through the traditional villages as if you were stepping back in time, naked children cheering and waving, feeling the sea salt spray on your face as you race past dug-out canoes into the lagoon and beyond, chasing fish and spotting coral. I’m pretty sure in a couple of weeks I’ll be complaining I can’t find a moments peace, but for now, life is good

I’ve been back in Auki just over a week now and I can honestly say that this has been a trying time. I just cannot seem to catch a break. Despite this I have amazed myself at how choosing, yes choosing, to remain calm and cheerful despite everything really works. 
Except for Saturday night.
Saturday night, I may have sat in the dark, partaking in what can only be described as a snot dribbling, pathetic whaling interspersed with some (mildish) expletives before returning to a few gasping chokes for air whilst shaking my fists in the air. I realise that the picture I am painting is that of an inebriated drunkard lunatic but I lost my resolve after only one drink. 
So this is how my week panned out. I feel I need to share this with you. 
After returning from a fabulous trip to Hong Kong and China with my sister I got the boat back to Auki. This was the first sign that maybe everything was not going to go to plan. The boat left, hot and crowded as usual and I settled in for the 4 hour journey. After 2 hours we sidled alongside a heavily listing COSTCO, obviously having got its self in dire straits over night. The boat was packed and a mere five times bigger than ours. I watch in horror as every passenger leapt aboard, cramming themselves into the already confined space. An hour later, we set off at a snail’s pace on a heavy tilt, leaving a ghost ship behind. 

Here is the message I sent my friends in Honiara should they never hear from me again.
Six hours later, hot, sweaty and little stressed but alive (yay), I arrived in Auki. I was excited. I was moving into my new house. This was to be a new start, an adventure to make up for my lack of company. I had arranged for a truck and some strong strapping lads from the hospital to come and assist. The road I was moving up was a long, steep, bumpy road which needed a high clearance four-wheel drive. They sent me an old man and a decrepit truck. I quickly decided that there was no way this man nor this truck was going to get me up the hill alive. I thanked him and assured him I knew some people, who knew some people who would help me. I didn’t. So, over the next two hours, on a hot and humid day, I carted 2 big suitcases and three heavy boxes up the steep, steep, long hill chanting to myself the whole time:

 “I am an independent woman”

“You are not alone” 

“You could have got help if you needed it”

 “You put yourself in this position”

“You choose to do this”. 

And do it I did. I could barely move the next day, but do it, I did.
I discovered a bottle of Sav Blanc left to me by my lost friends, slipped it in the fridge and began to unpack. I was not going to let the fact that the house had not been cleaned get me down, I was not going to let the fact that all the bedding was missing get me down, I was not going to let the fact that half the kitchen utensils and pans had disappeared get me down nor that the TV was broken, the fan had gone, and the umbrellas’ vanished. I had a fridge. I had an oven, I had a shower. I could make tea in my underwear, sip gin on my balcony, bake bread and leave my washing up. This was it. This was life
When the electricity ran out, I did not break. When I realised my only water supply was the rain tank outside, I did not break. When I was told the gas bottle had been stolen I did not break. Even as I opened the chilled bottle of wine to discover it had been drunk and filled with water, I did not break. As I sat by candle light eating a tin of tuna, listening to the chirping insects and children laughing, watching the sun as it set over the ocean I thought “why would this break me? It is perfect”. 
I actually really enjoyed my first weekend. I lived the simple life. I ate a raw, vegan diet, showering in the rainwater outside, carrying buckets too and fro, lazing in the hammock reading my book and by night doing a jigsaw whilst listening to Christianity FM (it’s all I got) on the wireless. Life was still pretty good. 
 I now have a new found sympathy for those who are regularly late for work. In a world without a postal service or internet banking, paying your bills is not an easy feat. Nobody, but nobody has a credit card. We are cash and cheque (remember those) transactions only thank you. I need to cue for hours in the bank just to pay my rent, the same in Solomon Water to pay my water bill. For my electricity I need to give money to the nice lady at the Solomon Power shop which then gets sent to Honiara, who generates a code, which is then sent back to Solomon Power in Auki, where I need to collect it before I can put it in the meter and hey presto! Power! My gas, I found a man who can: delivered and chained where hopefully it shall stay. I am on it and sorting it, although I am always at least an hour late for work. Solomon Time.

Work is going great and I have enjoyed coming back after the Christmas period. I am the only one mind you. The rest of my office is still on leave and will be till February. I have big plans. We are planning to re-launch the Staff development office as “The Knowledge Lab” with a funky new logo and, funding depending, a little lick of paint to remove the depressing tobacco stained hue which clings to the walls.

I just want to get everyone online and learning. How hard can this be? I am astounded that this was my plan 6 months ago and I have been busy, yet achieved nothing, not a thing, nada. We plan to hold a research symposium, competitions, challenges, run incentives, showcase courses, recruit education link nurses and start a reading/discussion group as well as producing 4 learning sessions and two skills workshops a month. I say we. If there was anyone else here, I’m sure they would love to be involved. Wouldn’t they?
I have an ant obsession. Ants are everywhere, ants are in everything. Nasty tiny little biting ants: in my tea, on my toast, in my bed, on my knife, up the walls, in the bin, on the self, by the sink, in my pants, on my towel, in my bra. Arrgggghhh!!
I digress. So, despite the ants, the bills, the lost things, the broken things, no friends, no colleagues, what was it that reduced me to an unhinged, babbling nutcase?
Somebody has been coming into my house and taking my things, somebody who likes to smoke cigars and drink rum. I sometimes wonder if I am going mad. I brought some cigars back for a friend. I’m sure I left them on the windowsill but maybe I’m mistaken? Maybe I’ve put them somewhere else. But I’ve search high and low. Where can they be? I have a tin of tuna in the cupboard which I’ll have for dinner. Or at least I thought I did? In fact, I’m sure I did. But I can’t find it. Where are the chocolate cookies I bought for today’s meeting? Now, I definitely know that I had a bottle of spiced rum. Didn’t I? Who drank all the Gin? Did I? Now, I know what you’re your thinking so before you even ask, the answer is no! I definitely did not drink it all myself, pass out and forget. I didn’t. 
Maybe I should be grateful that they are not taking my laptop or that I don’t feel in any danger but it’s the violation of my privacy. Somebody is watching me. I realise that it is a strong statement and maybe I’m being a little over dramatic. I can’t complain too much or too loudly as people don’t seem to think it’s such a big thing here. If you have stuff, people will take it. Fact.  The last thing I want to do is behave like the spoilt child who got her toys stolen so I shrug my shoulders and pretend that I’m ok. 

Maybe I’m a little ashamed that after I had managed to stay so strong it was the missing bottle of rum that broke me. But I want to stamp my feet and shout: 

It Is Just Not Fair!

Today is Monday. I have had new locks fitted and there is no more alcohol or cigars left to be taken. It is a new week, new me. I will not let this break me (again). I still have my fridge, my freezer, my oven and my shower. I have planted herbs, started sprouting beans and filleted my first fish (don’t ask). I can still make breakfast in my underwear, laze in my hammock and watch the sunset over the ocean every night (unfortunately without the gin). Next week I’m hoping to get a pet pig. 

Everything is going to be OK.

As is traditional, I have been spending a lot time reflecting on  2016 – a year that saw a massive rise in terrorist attacks, Syria, Trump, Brexit and the loss of Prince, David Bowie and George Michael, slightly shit for the world, definitely shit for politics but pretty damn awesome for me. 
For those of you who have no wish to delve into the self-indulgent post that follows, you can leave it here if you want to. Or you can come along as I muse on a year gone by and think about what the future may hold. Of course, it is all about me, Anna May Venture.

January saw my sister and I driving across south Africa. I love Africa and still believe that I will live somewhere on this vast continent at some point in my life. It was an amazing holiday that started with hiking the peaks of the Drakensberg mountains, included lions, elephants, zebras, giraffes and rhinos (Oh My), ended with turtle spotting on the beach and included a luxury that was often beyond my comprehension. The new year had certainly started in style.

From there it was on to Thailand for a beautiful wedding.

I distinctly remember lounging around the pool, reminiscing on 2015 and discussing our plans for the following year. We all felt at a bit of standstill in our lives and wondered what 2017 would hold for us.

I think if someone could have told us then that there would be three babies, three different countries and two career changes between us before the end of the year, oh how we would have laughed! What a difference a year makes.

I returned to Australia without much of an agenda. My plan was, as always, to work a bit, travel a bit. Somewhere in the mist I was to complete my pharmacotherapeutic course and make the transition into remote area nursing, the dream being to move even deeper into an Australia I had yet to explore. 

I got a contract in Kununurra, right in the heart of the Kimberly. I have always had one rule in life: never go back. Even when I have had the time of my life, it is the new and the undiscovered that thrills me, it gives me that sense of adventure and that lust for life. I broke that rule this time and thankfully did not regret it.

This was the second time I had packed up my trusty car and driven over 3000 kilometres up into the Kimberly. I love the solitude and beauty of the open road. I find these long journeys a great chance to reconnect with me, myself and I. 

I love the Kimberly for its wild ruggedness, the hiking, the swimming, the camping. 

The oppressive heat sometimes got to me but great friends and good times always picked me up. There was never a dull moment.

 I loved the hospital, the work, the thrill of the emergency department and the team spirit. I miss it. Would I go back? In a heartbeat.
I have always said that at some point in my life I would love to do a long-term volunteer project. Both Africa and India taught me important life lessons that I believe has shaped me into the person I am today. 

However, I never felt I was there long enough to really achieved anything. It would make me happiest to think that I had contributed to a positive change, no matter how small, that would remain after I was gone.

I have always felt underqualified. I am just a nurse. Sure, I have travelled and experienced many different aspects of nursing but I have never specialised in any area or gone into management. Jack of all trades, master of none. The volunteer environment is a competitive field, it is not as easy as just rocking up, rolling up your sleeves and diving in. They are looking for people who can build capacity, run hospitals, train staff. However, if you’re not looking, you will not see. I always kept my eye out for that one chance. 

Then I saw this job in the Solomon Islands. I knew I did not have the qualifications or the experience but as I always tell my friends: that is for them to decide, not you. If you don’t apply, how will they know about you? So, I applied, without hope or agenda. The rest, as they say, is history.

Just after the famous Kimberly Moon Festival, I packed up my life again and set off on the long drive down to Melbourne. It was a fabulous drive that began with nights under the stars in the top end heat and ended with woolly pullies and winter blankets as I headed through South Australia in the depth of winter.

 I had the chance to discover the gorges and fabulous waterfalls of Katherine, swim in the hot waters of Mataranka springs, spend time reminiscing in Alice Springs, the place that set me off on the adventure that is my life today, check out the weird underground world of Coober Pedy, catch up with friends in the Barossa and finally, a week later, landed with my surrogate family in Melbourne to kids and chaos. Home at last.

After a quick trip back to the UK to get a new passport and say goodbye to the family (it will be over 18 months before I see many of them again), I was boarding a plane to the pacific and heading into a life unknown. 

The rest is chronicled in this blog. Any regrets? Not a bean.
I have had a fabulous Christmas with my cousin Sue and her husband Laurie in Cairns. It has been so indulgent that I have not had time to even consider culture shock. It is boxing day and I am sat sipping a cold sauvignon blanc, looking out over the ocean in Palm Cove. It is the third time I have heard Mariah Careys “all I want for christmas”. I am alone amongst couples and families all spending the Christmas holidays together and I am cosseting a little bit of melancholy. It is probably the wine (Que Bridget Jones “All by myself”). I wonder if this year, the same as I wonder every year, will be the year that I find someone to love me. Is it not what everyone wants? To be loved, to stop looking, to start a family?  I have been single for as long as I have truly known myself. Who knows why? I am quite sure everyone has a theory. As I sit and ponder this thought the loneliness expands inside me like a huge empty canyon and the tears well in my eyes. Sometimes, I find it good to indulge in a little sadness to help you to realise how lucky you are. I have a word. I am ok. I swallow my tears and I squeeze the hole shut as I think about my life. I get to see and do so many amazing things, I have lots of love and I am happy. I will not end this year disappointed. This is enough for me. I don’t know what next year will hold, but I am excited about it. 
I will be returning to Auki to start a new chapter in this great adventure. Before I left, I packed up my room in the guest house, the room that had been both my cell and my sanctuary for the last 6 months. My life, yet again, reduced to two boxes and a suitcase. I will be moving to a new house. My own house. Warm drinks, rotten veg, bucket showers, scrubbing clothes, hard beds and sleepless nights will be a thing of the past. I look forward to a life where I can make breakfast in my nightclothes, I can sip cold drinks straight from the fridge, with ice, I can swing from my hammock on the balcony, wearing shorts, watching the sunset over the ocean, I can bake bread, roast veggies and take hot showers. Part of me feels a little sad. For those of you who know me, know I love to play the martyr. What will I complain about when I have all of life’s luxuries at my fingertips? You can rest assured that I will probably find something.
But until then, as is tradition, I am off to see the new year in with my sister. This year it will be Hong Kong and Southern China. So, please, come along. I’m not promising sunshine and roses but if 2017 is anything like last year, it is going to be a great adventure. 
I Hope you all had a great Christmas and wish you a happy, healthy, fun-packed new year.

The weekend started abruptly at 3:47am. I woke with a start as my bed rocked, the windows rattled and my shelves shuddered. The earthquake started with a shaking that varied with an often violent intensity. When the shaking subsided, the rolling waves began, causing the whole house to oscillate back and forth, back and forth. I didn’t move. I just sat there on my bed, riding it out. My thoughts only that this is an inconvenience I could do without. When the eerie silence settled in and all was still, I rolled over and went back to sleep. As the day began to unfold, the only thing that had me worried was my lack of panic. Friends told stories of diving under  beds, work colleagues fled from their houses to higher ground, everyone at my guest house was out in the street, the sea had swept far, far out, leaving the ocean floor thirsty and yet I had just sat there. I had done the training, I knew the drill, I had my grab bag packed and still I did nothing. 

The CNN headline reads: 

Massive 7.8 earthquake shakes the Solomon Islands in the south west pacific

The Guadian continues: 

The first powerful quake on the early hours of Friday triggered a series of tsunami alerts across the region, sending hundreds of people in the Solomons scrambling to higher ground. 

Nope. Not me, no.

My dad sent me a text, and I quote “well, not everyday the earth moves” and the penny drops. My sense of panic? Perhaps it’s genetic.

 Thankfully, despite the damage, only one death was recorded. I guess I was lucky. Next time, I will know better. 

And that is how my weekend began. 

This week, my friends, my best friends in Auki left me to return to Australia for good. Although it has been less than 6 months, they have been my guide, my company and my rock. In a place so far from home, where everything is unfamiliar, strange and scary, the friends you find are family. I am gutted to see them go and the apprehension I feel at continuing this journey without them is huge. But for now, we had one last weekend, and we made it a great one. 

We were headed up to Lau Lagoon in north Malaita. It was one hell of a journey to get there but an amazing ride. We cling to the back of the truck as we bump and bang along an unmade road, puckered by pot holes and broken bridges, splashing through rivers and negotiating roadblocks along the way. It is a magical ride as all along the palm lined road small villages appear through the trees, men, women and children stop and look up, laughing and waving as we pass by. There are constant shouts of “arakwa” (White man), naked babies playing, children running, football games, volley ball, women dancing, men chatting, a market, a school, pigs and chickens, fires burning, a busy river, people washing, a waterfall, a white powder beach, the ocean and a choir of voices singing as we pass an overcrowded truck. For four hours, as the world rushes by, there is not a single moment that doesn’t hold something new and exciting to discover. 

We drive till the road runs out and the lagoon begins. It is dark now and we are guided by a bright moon and a thousand stars across the silent calm waters. We pass many tiny islands, each one built up rock by rock, until we arrive at Berlin Island, our home for the next few days. 

The people of the Lau Lagoon are know as the wane i asi (salt water people) as opposed to wane i tolo (bush people) who live on the main land. History has it that conflict between the bush people and the salt water people forced them off the land  and into the lagoon. The salt water people would take their canoes to the outter reef and dive for rocks, bring them to the surface and drop them at a chosen site one at a time. They built islands on the reef in order to survive and as protection against further attack and many still live there today. 

Despite a slight wink to the modern world: the occasional solar panel, the drone of a passing motor boat amongst a sea of canoes, pre-love clothes and the odd contemporary addition to a leaf hut, life here is very traditional, steeped in culture and played out in almost silence. The best thing, it is barely touched by tourism, keeping it as true an experience as possible. The worst thing, climate change and rising sea levels means the islands will soon be reclaimed by the salty waters from which they came. 

On arrival we are lead by the light of the moon, across the island, out to the garden where we sit on thrones made from rocks among flowerbeds grown in seashells. It is here that we are introduced to the “pirates”, a group of surly looking boys, brothers, adopted by this family to help build the island, their eyes cast down and thier postures austere. They would like to welcome us with a song. As they serenade us with a lone guitar and a song of love, their vulnerability is laid bare and there is not a heart that can hide from being touched. I can tell from this moment that this is the most amazing, magical place. 

The days are simple. We dine on huge fish and seafood cooked on an open fire, tearing it apart with our hands, the vegetables fresh and the fruit so sweet. It is wet season and it rains and it rains. We shelter, drinking hot toddies and putting the world to rights. Or we sit by the light of a kerosine lantern playing board games into the night. I am nostalgic for family camping trips in England as a child.

 In moments of sunshine we head out snorkelling on the surrounding reef or sit on the lawn eating cheese and reading magazines. We visit a market where the only currency is trade and we take boat rides, navigating our way through mangrove lanes to hidden villages. At night we sleep in leaf huts, lulled to sleep by the gentle lapping of the lagoon waters against the shores of our tiny island. 



All too soon I am back on the boat, across the lagoon, bouncing along the unmade road, passed the villages, over the bridges, through the streams and home, back in my room, alone again. 

And my friends have gone. Time is an illusion. One day you have a sackful to throw away, the next your hands are empty. You wonder if you used it wisely enough, did you savour every moment? I’m not ready to do this alone, I’m afraid, I’m about to panic. Then I hear the voice of my dad “Well, sounds t’me y’ave no choice. Y’can either worry about it, or Y’can get on wi’it.” Do you know what? he’s bloody right. Harsh, but right. That’s my dad. So, get on wi’it I shall. 

But we did have some fun xx