Six

“An Innocent Encounter”

In which I decide it is time to take action – throw myself into the fray – a small child decides to take a grip on things – and I retire hurt.

Slowly, like an unconfident swimmer reversing nervously down the steps into the pool, goggles firmly in place, I had approached this village life with some trepidation. It seemed, however, that around Mendali the metaphorical waters, at least, were warm and buoyant and that the arrival of this stranger, this ‘waetman’, had caused hardly a ripple.

Soon, much sooner than I had expected, the nature of my days in Mendali developed a perfect normality. Weaving my way up the corkscrew root to my ‘smolhouse’, attempting to catch my reflection in the top of a bucket, unwrapping a banana leaf to reveal a whole cooked fish that I ate in my fingers or washing in a stream with an aluminium saucepan and a slip of soap became actions that were in no way out of the ordinary.

This was a happy, gentle existence but I will admit now, lest I give the impression of an entirely perfect world, that the food was awful.

Lazily, the islands spread themselves across the Tropic of Capricorn just a few degrees south of the Equator. All year round the temperature remained constant, the rain fell with refreshing reliability and the seasons needed play no part in the gardener’s diary. Sow and, in these conditions, pretty shortly you should reap. The choice of vegetables, however, was limited – depressingly so – because here food was treated, perhaps quite correctly, not as a means to demonstrate financial or intellectual superiority (“Isn’t she so very clever in the kitchen? Does wonderful things with the foie gras. I have it flown in on saysonne, voo savay…”) but simply as fuel to be consumed. These vegetables and fruits had sustained the islanders and their ancestors for many hundreds – possibly thousands – of years. Quantity was, of course, a priority. Variety, however, was not and the diet of the islands soon became depressingly predictable, reliant as it was on three or four indistinguishable root vegetables that required Herculean amounts of mastication and copious flushing with water before they could be swallowed – a little like trying to consume a bar of soap but with none of the flavour or the foaming qualities.

Used as I had been to enjoying the cuisine of any corner of the world whenever I chose (or at least its Anglo imitation created on an industrial estate in Middlesex) my taste buds were now in revolt. Previously they had enjoyed nothing more than touring the fifteen aisles of the out-of-town supermarket, lingering at the delicatessen and asking sensible questions about new cheeses. Now they were hiding food under their spoons, accidentally spilling it or sneakily feeding chunks to the cat, passing piccaninnies and the tropical fish. On two occasions, they had folded their arms and refused point-blank to eat even if they had to stay there all night.

It seemed from my readings that I was not alone in my gastronomic disappointment. Grimble had also encountered the ubiquitous tubers ‘whose unhallowed starchiness no treatment under heaven was ever known to exorcize’. Fortunately he did, on occasion, receive deliveries of tinned food. These though were no cause for great excitement either.

“With the honourable exceptions of asparagus and beetroot, which always seemed to retain faint memories of their better selves, the vegetables doomed to canning in 1916 entered their iron cells bleakly determined to betray every sweetness of their early promise. When they emerged, the eye dared hardly dwell upon their livid looks, and the taste of one and all – celery or onion, pea, cabbage, cauliflower, bean or potato – was as the taste of iron filings boiled in dishwater.”

Even the uncomplaining RLS noted that ‘an onion, an Irish potato or a beef-steak had been long lost to sense and dear aspiration’.

Crusoe had, of course, had no problem at all in creating a superbly run market garden organised, cultivated, harvested, and consumed single-handedly. His island was, by ‘great good fortune’, ‘a pleasant, fruitful part’ and he was, to my great irritation, always contemplating ‘with great pleasure the fruitfulness of that valley and the pleasantness of the situation’. Well, there was nothing wrong with Randuvu and – if he thought he was so bloody marvellous, I would show him – I was not to be outdone. Although I possessed no greater gardening experience than beans and blotting paper at primary school, I was spurred on by the rumblings of my stomach and set about the creation of ‘Garden blong William’.

Early on I had discovered some dusty packets of seeds in the small store in Munda and for my own interest I planted a small vegetable patch on the edge of the villagers’ gardens. Soon in the damp, warm climate rows of seedlings – tomato, aubergine, pepper and cabbage – sprouted in green lines out of the soft, brown earth and every day after church I took a simple pleasure in seeing how my garden grew.

One day, returning with Stanley, my assistant, from a morning inspection he pointed out a tree.

“Jam fruit. Nice one.”

Sweet, dark red and shiny like a cherry but containing pips rather than a stone, I could see the fruits might well make delicious jam. They also looked rather like grapes, so I collected as many as I could carry in the front of my T-shirt and when I returned to the house poured them into my large plastic drinking bottle. Mashing the fruit up with the handle of my toothbrush, I added some sugar borrowed from Ellen and filled it up with water. The lid fitted tightly and I replaced the cap on the drinking straw. By the time I looked at it again in the evening the cap had popped off and the fizzing inside was audible. The smell that it gave off, if not reminiscent of any of the great vintages, proved beyond doubt that it was doing what nature had intended. Within a few weeks I had purloined a huge plastic bucket with lid and had all the makings of a fine cellar.

Different but no longer strange, my new life surprised me only when I realised how easily I had adapted and how little I missed. No longer did I fumble for light switches or reach out for the tap, cold drinks were no longer indispensable, not being able to watch the news seemed to have made no great difference to my effect on world affairs and I had not bought a new gadget since I had arrived. Apart, of course, from the half-size bush knife that I carried wherever I went, probably more as a fashion accessory than with any useful purpose in mind.

Effortlessly, Robinson Crusoe had managed to outstrip his own usually substantial levels of pomposity when he too considered what he had gained by his enforced isolation:

“It was now that I began sensibly to feel how much more happy the life I now led was, with all its miserable circumstances, than the wicked, cursed abominable one that I led all the past part of my days…”

Although I did not share the same qualms about my former behaviour, I did recognise the attractions of a lifestyle in which there was no routine to be followed, no order of events laid down to which I was expected to adhere: no expectation, no condemnation. It was quite acceptable to do nothing but simply enjoy the natural beauty of the world about me and the genuine, non-judgemental friendship of the sweet-tempered villagers.

In fact, I really had no complaints, no complaints at all, which made it all the harder to decide what it was that I might do to ‘help’. But Luta’s words echoed about me and I believed that if we could use the funds available to create an income from which the community as a whole might benefit then we would be going some way to fulfilling the Commander’s wishes. Anyway, I was ready for action, ready to get down to business. What then was this wonderful income producer to be? I still had next to no idea.

“Have a meeting,” suggested Geoff.

He and Gerry had become my secret advisors on the other side of the lagoon. Under the guise of having to post a letter, I would covertly sneak to see them if ever I was in need of information or advice.

“Solomon Islanders love meetings,” agreed Gerry.

This proved to be only too true. One evening, after Small Tome and I had suffered another crushing defeat at the card table and he was having one of the more complex rules explained to him again by Imp, I suggested to Luta that we should call everyone together to discuss what we might do. He became most excited, nodding enthusiastically and volunteering to organise the time and the place. Everybody would come, he was sure.

So one Sunday morning after the church service, we convened in the shade of the old Ngali nut tree at the edge of the clearing. Everybody did come – although not all at the same time. Nevertheless within an hour or so we were ready and I, who had been sitting on some old sacks with my back to the tree, stood up to open the meeting. The audience settled, looking up expectantly as if the lights had dimmed for the latest blockbuster at the cinema.

Rolling cigarettes and lighting them from an ember that smouldered in a half coconut shell, the men chomped happily on the mildly intoxicating but unbelievably bitter betel nuts and leaves, which they mixed into a red paste in their mouths and spat copiously on the ground. The third ingredient – lime powder – was passed in a pot from hand to hand.

Perhaps a little more aloof but still curious, the women sat separately, sometimes breastfeeding, sometimes stroking the hair of naked children who were themselves ruffling scraggy, long-suffering cats that they held firmly by the tail. Some of the women were arranged in groups of four. A daughter lay with her head in a mother’s lap while a sister knelt behind her and another stood in turn behind her. Slowly and methodically, as they listened, they searched for the small, onyx-black bugs that lurked in their thick hair, killing them neatly between their teeth as they plucked them out.

Despite the fact that this assembled crowd was considerably more interested in what I had to say and certainly more generous in allowing me to say it than any class that I had taught in a former life, I was still less than confident – I knew that yet again I was ill-prepared. Earlier, I had tried to write a few notes on a piece of paper and had even planned to brandish it to underline my points. Finally I had decided against it, as I did not really have any points to make. I started uncertainly but Crusoe would have been proud of me as pomposity prevailed.

“Your good friends in England would like to assist you in the organisation of some profitable and sustainable ventures.”

That sounded like a reasonable, almost professional start.

“So, we are gathered here today to have a talk about plans for the future.”

From the blank looks of my audience, I surmised that this was something of a new concept.

“By sustainable, I mean projects that do not require complex machinery that is difficult or expensive to repair and which will be relatively quick turnover and high yield…”

Now I was getting’ into my stride.

At this point a two-, perhaps three-year-old little boy pottered into the proceedings. His name was Innocent and never has anyone been more aptly named. His great, nut-coloured eyes gazed out from beneath his blond-tipped cloud of hair in astonishment at this extraordinary world, his mouth half-open at the amazing sights and sounds of everyday life. He was the most delightful baby and, had it been any other moment of the week, I would have whiled away half an hour in his company, regressing as adults do when they talk to small children. Today, however, was different. I was at a vital meeting discussing matters that could shape the futures of these villagers’ lives. I could not be, would not be, distracted from this important business. Innocent, on the other hand, was totally enthralled by the curious sight of two thin, white legs covered in fine blond hairs poking out from a voluminous pair of army surplus shorts. I felt a tickle on my shin and then a small stroking on my kneecap.

“It is our hope that we can help you to provide something of lasting worth for your community.” I tried a small jiggle in a hope that the wandering hand might be dissuaded but Innocent was not to be deterred from further investigating this amazing discovery.

“We shall try to work together to create a regular income that may benefit all your future community projects.” To my relief, Innocent, one hand on his bare tummy, wandered away. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him reach down, bending bow-legged at both knees, and pick up a stick which he threw with practised ease at one of his sisters. Eventually the wails subsided and I pressed on.

“We are hoping that any suggestions will come from you and that we will be able to act upon them soon.” A gentle stroking heralded Innocent’s return. Reaching down, I made a subtle flicking motion with my fingers. All eyes were now levelled at knee height.

“I wonder, does anybody have any suggestions?”

Everyone was spellbound. A slight tug should have been warning enough.

“Perhaps someone has some ideas? Please feel free to say what you – Ow! Ow! Ouch! Ow!”

Innocent had grabbed as many hairs as his small grip could hold and yanked for all he was worth. He seemed quite astonished, disappointed in fact, that only a few came away. In reaction to the sharp pain I stepped away, caught my heel on a root and, arms flailing to regain my balance, fell backwards, producing a peculiar noise that suggested that something sharp was sticking through the sacks on which I now found myself sitting.

This was all too much for my audience who until then had made a supreme effort to keep a unified straight face. Now they fell about as I ruefully rubbed my leg. Yes, I suppose it was funny but not really that funny.

The laughter carried on long after I had casually lit a cigarette. Small Tome recovered just long enough to gasp, “We think maybe you had better decide and then we can help you.”

Great.