Figure 1

Our C130 flew over Honiara, banked to the left and circled back to approach the airfield from the south. From the air the township seemed clean, sprawling and peaceful. I was surprised at how big it seemed. Figure 1 shows the township with Henderson Field to the right and Point Cruz, next to the hotel I was booked into, on the left.

Climbing out of the Hercules onto the hot tarmac of Honiara International Airport – Henderson Field – was like jumping into a very large, very hot kiln. I broke out in a sweat immediately, and remembered my father’s description of the heat being like a blast furnace as he marched up Mount Austen, the hill visible at the south end of the airport. I wondered how he managed to survive marching up the hill under the weight of a full pack and rifle in such heat.

During the ten-kilometer drive into Honiara I was struck first by the lushness of the vegetation and the proliferation of crudely made, often half-completed houses scattered amongst the coconut trees. As we got closer to the township the impression was of verdant tropical foliage, dust, throngs of colourfully dressed, dark-skinned Melanesians, and rubbish everywhere I looked. Discarded shopping bags, plastic cups, old cartons and other rubbish lined the edges of the streets and footpaths and festooned the trees.

We reached the Mendana Hotel on the waterfront right next to Point Cruz. I signed in and went upstairs to my very basic room. It was well furnished: no TV, but a double bed, refrigerator and a combined shower and bath. Best of all, it had an air conditioner, which I ran the whole time I was there.

That evening I met up with the Hercules aircrew in the garden bar in front of the hotel overlooking Savo (Ironbottom) Sound (Figures 2- 4). I could see Savo Island, scene of the ferocious naval battle between the Japanese and American Navies in 1942, on the horizon to the left. The night-fight that took place around Savo Island resulted in the worst American naval defeat in history.

I recalled that in Diary No. 2 my father recounted a conversation with a Melanesian man who told him that babies born to native women raped by Japanese soldiers were thrown into the active volcano on Savo Island. To the right of the hotel was Point Cruz, now a tank farm, fishing boat and industrial area. In the war it was a Japanese stronghold and the scene of fierce fighting. I was pleased to be able to thank the Hercules crew for all they had done for me. I tried my first ice cold Solbrew, the local beer, which turned out to be the first of many over the next ten days. How my non-drinking father resisted the urge to have a beer during his time in the Solomon and Treasury Islands, even if it was warm, I could not imagine.

The next day I went exploring by walking up the main street toward the Matanikau River. A mangy dog attached itself to me and followed me most of the way. I passed a group of women selling beautifully made, colourful souvenir hand bags (Figure 5).

Figure 5

The town was a busy place, with dense traffic and throngs of Melanesian people going about their business (Figure 6 and 7). The National Parliament buildings overlooked the main shopping centre (Figure 8). My initial impressions during the drive from the airport, of dirt, dust, rubbish and smoke were confirmed, with the addition of bright red patches of betel-nut juice hoiked onto the footpaths and verges (Figures 10 and 11).

The amount of rubbish clogging the streets and footpaths was unbelievable, the smell of rotting and burning trash, mingled with the smell of sewerage, overpowering. People seemed to throw plastic bags, cardboard and plastic wrapping, tin cans and bottles into the street. The few rubbish bins were overflowing, with nobody apparently responsible for emptying them. (There is a theory that dropping rubbish in the street is a common practice in Pacific Island countries because traditionally people consumed organic foods which break down quickly in the humid climate and they consequently thought nothing of throwing leftover food into the bush because it decomposed and disappeared rapidly. Unfortunately plastic containers don’t decompose in the same way.) While visiting the Japanese war memorial on nearby Mount Austen, I was taken by the sight of a large tree covered in white blossoms. I walked over for a closer look and was shocked to discover that the white flowers were actually plastic shopping bags, blown ups into the tree by the wind (Figure 9).

Figure 9

In the main drag of Honiara, cars and trucks were parked on cracked and broken footpaths so that pedestrians were forced to walk on dirt tracks beside them. Most people were barefooted, oblivious to the shards of broken glass on the footpaths. Close to the centre of town was a curious, ramshackle building with a betel juice stained corrugated iron facade, and a small shuttered hatch (Figure 12). It appeared to be a small shop. Business was conducted through the hatch. I watched as one man bought a single tailor-made cigarette. A Solomon Islands version of a “hole in the wall”.

Many of the locals seemed surly and menacing. I felt a sense of latent aggression and tension in the air throughout Honiara, with clusters of men standing about talking conspiratorially and giving furtive looks about them. I instinctively avoided eye contact. An older man stopped me on the footpath, said good morning and shook my hand, a singular act of spontaneous friendship. I speculated that perhaps he or his family had had contact with Allied forces in the war.

The shops were small, hot and dark. Many shop fronts were decorated with a kind of naive/folk-art style of painting of the goods for sale within. The style was so consistent from one shop to the next that I wondered if the same sign-writer had been responsible for all of them. Grimy and faded, they had taken on a weathered patina which seemed to me to enhance their appearance (Figures 13 – 18).

I stopped in at the huge, thriving market in the centre of town (Figure 19). There was every kind of primary produce imaginable: brightly coloured vegetables, some recognisable, others totally unfamiliar to me, brought in by gardeners in villages surrounding Honiara, racks of cheap clothing, a huge seafood section, the smell of the fish and shellfish decomposing in the hot sun pervading the entire market.

Figure 19

I stood taking pictures on my iPhone, (Figures 20 n- 25) only to be prodded from behind by a man with a wild look in his eyes who belligerently demanded to know in broken English why I was taking photographs. I apologised, explained that I did not want to cause any offence, slipped the phone into my pocket and nervously turned away.

I was not mentally prepared for the tension and Third World conditions that I experienced in Honiara. I felt like I was in a very alien place. It was a relief to leave the market (Figure 25) and return to the sanctuary of the hotel and the relative comfort of my air-conditioned room, very aware of the contrast between the lifestyles of the majority of the local people and those of the tourists and foreigners who visit the Solomons. I wandered down to the pool and ordered an ice-cold Solbrew beer.

The next day I met Stanley Auger (Figure 26), who was to be my taxi-driver and guide while I was in Guadalcanal. He is a charming man who I immediately warmed to. He has taken an interest in the war history of the island, and is clearly very knowledgeable about the location of battle sites and Japanese and Allied positions.

Figure 26