The Solomon Islands: Part 2
“The alternative is to kill them all”, our banana boat skipper Mylo confidently asserted, throwing his arms in the air. “But surely that would take a long time,” I ventured. Mylo considered the logistics and summarised like a builder giving a quote. “I could do it in a month.” The plan under consideration was to murder the government of the Solomon Islands as a way to resolve the current political impasse between members of parliament and their embattled Prime Minister who was facing a vote of no confidence and a likely ousting. We were debating who would be a better candidate to take office and unsurprisingly, Mylo and his crew didn’t think any of them were up to the job. Removing them all from office in one fell swoop seemed a logical move. Luckily the conversation ended there as we sped out into the sea towards Gizo town.
Mylo (unlikely to be his real name, but the closest I could get to through his drug-hazed drawling, despite several asks), was a character and a half. We’d met him at the Ringgi jetty as we left Imbu Rano Lodge and had employed him to take us to Gizo, largely due to the fact that we’d missed the public ferry. Missing the ferry was down to our pick-up arriving an hour late, so we were lucky to find anybody able or willing to take us. Mylo, as it turned out, was our only option, but at least he agreed to charge us the going ferry rate. First impressions were less than hugely positive. He seemed a little shaky and was clearly as high as a kite from chewing too much betel nut, which had stained his teeth and mouth a delightful shade of dirty vermillion. He was wearing a white t-shirt and a pair of blue underpants. “We’ll go to my house first,” he said, ostensibly to get a tarpaulin to cover our bags, but primarily so he could retrieve his shorts for the journey. “Let’s go see the mangroves first,” he then suggested, though this was clearly the second thing we were doing. ‘The mangroves’ was a channel dug though the forest so we could take a shortcut, but also the place where Mylo’s grandfather had hunted dolphins. “How did he catch them?” I asked, “with a spear?” I expected some dramatic tussle between man and beast. “No, a net”, was the non-plussed reply to the stupid tourist.
After more time turning off into coves and inlets on Kolombangara Island in a fruitless search for other passengers (we’d been going about an hour already), we pulled into the village of Kaza, where Mylo announced that the boat’s engine just wasn’t good enough, and that we, as visitors from England, deserved a faster, more efficient transport. “This one Chinese”, he lamented. “Chinese rubbish.” This drew a laugh from ourselves and a fellow ‘passenger’ (made up to make us feel, unsuccessfully, like we were not alone with a bunch of pirates), so like a rewarded child Mylo repeated the phrase every other minute from then on. “Chinese rubbish, Chinese rubbish” (ad infinitum)…
Another 40 minutes went by as we waited for negotiations to conclude between Mylo, his crew and the owner of another boat. Mylo came back, then we waited another 10 minutes for the owner to turn up (he’d decided to come along for the ride, no doubt to ensure he got his boat back). We listened to the kids in the local school try to out-sing each other, or rather out-shout each other. Amusement at this strangely turned into our considered political debate and by the time we eventually got going again we wondered where all this was going to end. It crossed our minds that we’d be led out to sea towards Gizo, then extorted for cash, or worse and there wasn’t a great deal we could do about it. It wasn’t helped by a good deal of stage whispering going on behind our backs. But we needn’t have worried. These were Solomon Islanders after all and this is one of the friendliest places you could ever hope to visit. Hard to overcome a lifetime of healthy wariness though.
Gizo in rush hour
Gizo market trader
Gizo market
Gizo kids pose spontaneously
Gizo market traders
Gizo market trader
Gizo cathedral
Gizo kids
Beers at the PT-109 bar
The journey of 35 minutes from Ringgi to Gizo took about 2 and a half hours, and we were a wee bit relieved to step out onto the docks. It was then that Mylo attempted to tell me his name and try to take us to see some ‘artefacts’. We declined and walked off politely but swiftly in the direction of our digs. This proved to be a mistake. The hotel was less than 2 kilometres away, but up a large hill. We trudged up, in flip-flops and sweltering heat and arrived in a sweaty mess in front of a barmy old woman who insisted we hadn’t booked a room with her and that she had no capacity at all. She then gave us a room anyway – a family room that we were ‘so lucky’ to get. Later she realised it was the room we’d actually booked and apologised for having a major senior moment.
The town of Gizo was nothing to write home about to be honest. We’d intended to stay the night at a place called Imagination Island a few miles off the coast here, but the resort was largely destroyed by Cyclone Maila so we were forced to find an alternative. A hot dusty main drag with only one restaurant and a tiny market. It at least had a bar, the scruffy ‘PT-109’ selling reasonably cheap beer and a fabulous little breakfast cafe that looked totally incongruous in being modern, bright and clean. A lot of Gizo was submerged after the cyclone but you’d never know wandering about town. People here just get on with it, largely as they have no other choice.
We moved on to one of the best places to stay in the Solomon Islands, the ‘Fatboys’ resort on Mbambanga Island (strangely named after a character in The Pickwick Papers whose sole aim was to relax and overindulge), a 15 minute boat ride south of Gizo. Here we treated ourselves to a few days in a beautifully appointed over-water chalet looking out over the sea back towards the Kolombangara volcano.
Fatboys Resort, Mbambanga Island
Languid, lazy days here, in the heat and increasing humidity. Lounging on our deck, watching sun-sets and rises, eating fabulously plump crayfish from the overwater restaurant jutting out into the ocean. Wonderful staff too. It all added up to a delightful few days of indolence and indulgence in doing almost nothing.
That said, we did venture out on occasion. We took a picnic trip to the nearby Kennedy Island (aka Kasolo or ‘Plum Pudding’ Island) to where a pre-presidential Lieutenant John F. Kennedy swam with his remaining crew after their patrol boat PT-109 was rammed by a Japanese destroyer in 1943. There they survived for several days before swimming out to another nearby island from where they were rescued by 2 Solomon Scouts and ferried through enemy territory to safety. The island is miniscule, yet sports a little restaurant cum bar and a little plaque honouring the escapade. Alas Kennedy Island was hit massively by the cyclone and many large trees were downed, some now resting in the surf. Most of the picnic benches and palm-frond topped sunshade umbrellas were destroyed, along with most of the little pier. Joel, the lovely caretaker and the only island resident was there at the time and recalled how the waters engulfed the island overnight and came up to his waist. We assumed he must have been terrified. “I was a bit scared,” he said, with typical understatement. Many of the reefs off the island suffered terribly too and the dive master at Fatboys (an eccentric lady called Sue Ellen – yet more ‘Dallas’ references!) was almost in tears as she described the damage. We found the remaining intact stretch and snorkelled it, marvelling at how truly wonderful it was. It must have been some spectacle to see it in all its former glory.
Kennedy Island
Kennedy Island
Cyclone damage, Kennedy Island
Cyclone damage, Kennedy Island
Cyclone damage, Kennedy Island
Reef, Kennedy Island
Lobsters, Kennedy Island
Reef, Kennedy Island
Reef, Kennedy Island
Reef, Kennedy Island
Kennedy Island
We also went out to Babanga village with a staff member called ‘Tex’ who led us down forest pathways only just cleared of debris. Here, as on Kennedy, many of the taller trees had been uprooted and flung down, and several houses remained with damaged roofs. One house had apparently been knocked from its pilings and sat on the ground teetering and waiting to collapse completely. We found a group of little kids there, happy and carefree playing in the ruins of their house. We caused chaos at the local primary school too. There’s nothing more guaranteed to distract kids from schoolwork than turning up with a camera and asking who wants their picture taking. Cue mad hilarious crush. We apologised to their teacher who was amused rather than annoyed and showed us what the kids were learning that day (once we’d buggered off). Primary level science it seems and the differences between solids, liquids and gases. The kids were all drawing rainbows in their exercise books when we arrived, all sat on the floor of a two room wooden building as they had no desks.
Babanga Village kid
Babanga Village kids
Cyclone damage, Mbambanga Island
Babanga Village
Babanga Village school kids
Cyclone damage, Mbambanga Island
Babanga Village
Babanga Village school kids
Babanga Village church
Babanga Village school kids
Mbambanga Island
Babanga Village
Cyclone damaged Babanga Village house
We left Fatboys somewhat reluctantly, but had a couple of things to cover that I was looking forward to enormously. The first was a visit to a sunken, but largely intact American World War II ‘Hellcat’ fighter plane. Having had its engine shot-up by a Japanese aircraft in January 1943, the plane was nursed into the sea by its pilot in a controlled ditching. He was apparently totally unharmed and rescued shortly afterwards. The plane then sank in about 9 metres of beautifully clear water and remains remarkably intact. I snorkelled over it for a good half hour, diving down to as far as I could before my ears nearly burst. The pictures from the ever-iffy snorkel camera don’t really do it justice to be honest, but you’ll get the general idea.
Hellcat fighter plane
Hellcat fighter plane
After hauling myself back onto the boat we headed off to the dramatically named ‘Skull Island’. Not quite as nightmarish as the island’s namesake in King Kong, but just as interesting. It’s a wee spit of a place, but home to a range of gravesites, some ancient, some modern and a shrine to the sea where hopeful fishermen come to give offerings or thanks for a bountiful catch. But there’s also a darker side. Here resides a long platform built of volcanic rock pieces and littered with the skulls of cannibalised clan rivals. Unsurprisingly there’s a good deal of myth and legend about the place, but the common suggestion is that the platform was a repository for the heads of tribal chieftains conquered and eaten by the tribe who owned the island. By the looks of it they were proficient warriors and, judging by the number of skulls on display, no doubt rather fat. A metal trough sits nearby, full of water to cleanse and purify the heads before placing them on display, often with a supplementary offering of shell money. Rumour has it that the last person to be eaten and displayed here was a tourist from New Zealand in 1967. I’d love to think that was true….
Skull Island
Skull Island
I’m sure I left me teeth somewhere…
Skull Island
Our little excursion ended at Lola Island and the lovely, tired and sleepy resort of Zipolo Habu, run by an octogenarian American, Joe, from Seattle with his island wife Lisa. Soporific doesn’t quite cover it. We had to ask Joe repeatedly what there was to do and I think he was happy when we left him alone behind his little bar to stare into infinity, which seemed to be his preferred method of existence. Still we managed to cajole the staff into giving us a couple of kayaks for a supposed leisurely circumnavigation of the island that started out calm but soon got into unsettling swells and crashing surf. We eventually turned back after a couple of hours when Helen became very tired & the sea got significantly more threatening. Still, she had an interesting encounter to herself when paddling a little way behind me;
“Then I saw a shark. Its black tipped dorsal fin was peaking above the shallow water in typical shark fashion. It headed straight towards me with menacing beady eyes seemingly fixed directly on me. Though I’d happily snorkeled with lots of sharks in Fiji I was unnerved, even though I was sitting in a kayak that was much larger than it. It swam past ignoring me & I relaxed again”.
Zipolo Habu Lodge, Lola Island
Lola Island kayaking
Lola Island kayaking
I had a conversation with loquacious Joe before we left. “Goodbye,” he said, as we headed off to the last stop on our trip around New Georgia, the beautiful jungle island of Rendova and the Titiro Eco Resort. We’d heard great things about this place and our welcome did not disappoint. We were given coconuts to drink, enclosed in little palm leaf baskets, and sumptuous, delicate flower garlands, then a lunch of battered fish & chips. Our chalet digs here were basic (no electricity again), but fabulous, with a wonderful deck overlooking a small inlet to the jungle beyond. The wooden support posts were encased in palm leaf wrappings in which small plants and vibrant flowers were interlaced.
Negotiating shallow reef en route to Titiro
Coconut welcome
Some of Allen’s beach art
Titiro Eco Lodge chalet deck
Hanging out, Titiro Eco Lodge
Allen contemplating
We took a trip out later that day for snorkelling on a nearby reef that was badly damaged by the cyclone, but still had an abundance of fish life that was breathtaking in its diversity. Two of the Titiro staff joined me in a snorkel along a steep drop-off. One of them, Allen he called himself, kept moving a piece of coral from place to place and creating random artistic undersea sculptures. At the surface I asked him what he was doing, expecting some kind of interesting rationale for his spontaneous artistry. “Stone,” he said, mysteriously. We moved on.
At the end of the reef the three of us encountered an Orangefin Clownfish, Nemo’s psychopathic older brother, who became distinctly angry at our presence around his coral nest. The other two tried to catch him. He outmanoeuvred each and promptly bit them on their legs and torsos. I made several attempts to take his picture, eventually getting too close and receiving a bite to the hand for my efforts. A tiny fish attacking three grown men. Big balls indeed.
Looks innocent, bites like a bugger
Allen gets creative underwater
There was also something called the ‘Wild Cave Bath Tour’ we’d seen on the lodge’s website which looked intriguing. We’d assumed ‘Bath’ was a misspelt version of ‘Bat’. It turned out that both were accurate. After dinner we headed out with three of the lodge guys, armed with head-torches and wearing our swim shoes as we’d been warned we might encounter a stream. A half-hour hop over sharp, volcanic rock on a tiny path in the darkness confirmed our footwear was a bad choice (though the leader of our party, Peter, had a black trainer on his left foot and a battered brown brogue on the right, so at least we matched…)
As we reached the cave and started descending over loose rocks, Helen elected to avoid a serious bout of claustrophobia that was rapidly developing. She retired back to the lodge with one of the staff, leaving myself and the two others to explore the cave system. Peter had warned me that it might be a bit muddy at first and that the roof of the cave was a bit low. For the first 50 metres or so, we sank into mud over our ankles, bent almost double and edged our way through a passage less than 4 feet high with sharp protrusions aplenty. The multiple footwear approach clearly wasn’t working so well for Peter as he slipped and slid and went down several times.
Backs were starting to break a little, but we entered a larger passageway where we could stand upright and the mud was replaced by a slow-flowing stream that came up to our knees. From here we encountered some of the cave’s resident incumbents – Coconut Crabs. These things are a bit of a delicacy. The flesh is apparently very sweet, which is more than could be said for the vicious little buggers themselves. They’re renowned for being able to husk a coconut (hence the name) and a good sized crab can have your fingers off in seconds. It was with a healthy deal of trepidation then, that the guys grabbed and pinned each crab as we found it so they could reveal its wonderful blue underparts and impressive pincers. Each one got a wash in the stream too, so all good.
Another 100 or so metres on we found a hole in the ceiling first used by the local who discovered it 20 years ago. He was lunatic enough to jump down and find the entrance we came in at. We started seeing other wildlife here too. Strange shaped cave spiders looming overhead and bats echo-locating around us as they flitted to and fro. The cave ceiling lowered again until we were clambering on all fours with our chins above the water and heads skirting sharp stone outcrops. Juvenile bats were hanging here too. Tiny little things no more than 2 inches long. We had to manoeuvre our heads to avoid butting into them.
At this point the staff told me the last tourist they’d brought into the cave was a drunk Belgian several months ago. He’d been repeatedly banging his head on the ceiling which they thought was hilarity itself. I wondered if he’d got out alive and half expected to see a bloated Belgian carcass we’d have to push to one side to get past…Mercifully the cave expanded again and we were back upright once more. This was the area where snakes lived and earned a decent living patiently waiting for bats to flit by within striking range. Alas though, the snakes seemed to be having a day off, so no bat / fang / swallow action to be had on this occasion. Then we rounded a corner and came across another way out. A relief to be fair as we’d taken about an hour to get this far and it was tough going. Still, the trudge back to the lodge, avoiding massive toads on the path, each of us dripping wet and utterly filthy from the excursion, was a total joy nonetheless. A truly amazing and unique experience indeed…
Coconut crab in the ‘Wild Bath Cave’
Coconut crab in the ‘Wild Bath Cave’
The rest of our time on Rendova was a mixture of relaxation and brief excursions (we also visited JFK’s 1943 patrol-boat base). One morning I ventured as deep into the mangroves as my kayak would allow. Floating there in the silence of the forest, save for the cacophonous squawks of startled parrots, was quite incredible and humbling. We’ve encountered many places on this trip that make you appreciate how miniscule you are in the immensity of your surroundings, and this was one of those moments. It was a lovely way to end an incredible time in the Solomon Islands. Rarely have we enjoyed a place and its people to such a large extent.
JFK’s patrol boat base, Lubaria Island
Rendova Island mangrove forests
Rendova Island mangrove forests
Footnote: Island hopping in the Solomon Islands via banana boats, as the locals call them, has to be one of the best ways to travel. Whether through mirror smooth waters as placid as a municipal park lake or through choppy seas that jolt and slam against the boat hulls as they weave their way through lively waves, whether in glorious sunshine or through torrential rain, the feeling is still the same. Watching timeless tiny villages go by, nestled in the sea-fronting jungle on tiny islands, mutual and energetic waving between us and the kids in passing dug-out canoes, or seeing heads bobbing up and down in the shallow surf followed by frantic waving as you pass by. It’s a wonderful experience in a wonderful place….
Footnote: Whilst in the Solomon’s I tried a couple of new activities. One was solo paddling a traditional dug-out canoe at Rendova (a very precarious and wobbly endeavour). I focussed hard for a half-hour and managed to manoeuvre it back to the jetty without tipping it over or sinking, with around 10 locals watching me intently. I’m almost sure I saw money changing hands as I got out – no doubt some were disappointed… The other was Stand-Up Paddleboarding at Fatboys which I turned out to be pretty good at. Not that it was entirely plain sailing (nor indeed sailing at all). A rogue wave from the wake of a motor boat hit the board and I lost balance, flying backwards into the sea. Retrieving hat, then paddle, I clambered back onto the board. Helen, who was photographing me from our bungalow, had nipped inside and missed the action. A little passing canoe with several women in it, however, had not. To their credit they waited until they’d paddled past me before bursting out laughing… At least I only fell off once.
Footnote: Who nibbled our coconuts? At Titiro, we’d left our welcome coconuts, still in their little baskets, on the table outside on our deck. At five in the morning that night we heard a munching noise and a clunk. Helen got up to explore the room, but found nothing, save for a cockroach that had climbed into a glass and was soaking in a small pool of wine. The munching started up again. I ventured outside. One of the coconuts was missing from its basket and a pile of gnawed shavings was strewn all over the table. Coconut water was on the floor and we followed the trail until we reached the missing fruit in one corner of the deck. There was a heavy rustling on the roof above us, though no creature revealed itself. We went back to bed to await further developments, but heavy rain put paid to any further coconut antics that night and we never did discover what was responsible. However, as the chalet is situated in the mangroves it must surely have been a giant mangrove rat…..
Simon (1st May 2026)
Well what a brave pair you are.. I won’t even go on the park lake on a little boat
..you are both so lucky not to be eaten up by all these creatures
Just take care.love mum xx
‘..you are both so lucky not to be eaten up by all these creatures’ – it’s only a matter of time….
The cave story sounds more like an Im a celebrity get me out of here challenge.
Glad youve enjoyrd your island hopping, certainly sounds as though youve met some characters. And i was very pleased to read Helen didnt get devoured by the shark xx
Ha ha – it was a bit challenging to be fair. Great fun though. I suspect the shark was more scared of Helen than she was of it…..
have been loving all your tropical tales……it seems, and is I suppose, a world away from “the ‘Stans”. Glad to see you both looking so ridiculously healthy and happy xx
It seems an entire universe away!! Glad you’re liking our pacific posts – it’s a real adventure here…..